Read Online Babycakes by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Armistead Maupin
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auction in Hillsborough. During the course of their half-assed little affair in 1977, he and Mona had shared a passion for three things: the movies Harold and Maude and King of Hearts, and Bix Cross’s Denim Gradations album.
Mona’s favorite song from that album had been “Quick on My Feet.” Brian had found “Turn Away” more to his taste, and here, gleaming at his fingertips, was the platinum record heralding its success.
“Look at this, ” whispered Mary Ann, as they moved along the trophy-laden tables in the late rock star’s screening room. “She’s even raided the liquor cabinet.” She lifted a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort.
Brian read the tag on it. “Yeah, but he drank out of that with Janis Joplin.”
“Big deal,” murmured his wife. “Who cares?”
Was she spoiling for a fight? He cared a great deal, and she knew it. “It’s history,” he said at last. “For some people, anyway.”
She made a little grunting noise and kept moving. “How about this?” she asked, indicating a broken toaster. “Is this history?”
The playful look in her eyes kept him from getting angry. “You’d sure as hell think so if this were Karen Carpenter’s estate sale.”
Her eyes became hooded. “That was low, Brian.”
He chuckled, pleased with himself.
“And I wasn’t that big a fan.”
He shrugged. “You bought her albums.”
She groaned as she examined a box of plastic forks. “I bought an album, Brian. Stop being so hipper-than-thou.”
The debate was cut short by the arrival of their hostess. She swept into the room wearing a black angora sweater over black Spandex slacks. Mary Ann nudged Brian. “Mourning garb,” she whispered.
“Hi, people!” The rock widow strode toward them.
“Hi,” echoed Mary Ann, practically chirping. For all her private bad-mouthing, his wife was intimidated by Theresa Cross. Brian could always tell that by the tone of her voice, and it always brought him closer to her.
“Is your crew here yet?” asked Theresa.
“Any minute,” Mary Ann assured her. “They must have had a little trouble finding the …”
“Did you see the Harley?” Now the rock widow was talking to him, having dispensed with media matters.
“Sure did,” he replied.
“Isn’t it the best?”
Mary Ann’s cameraman appeared in the doorway. “There he is,” she said.
“Fabulous,” exclaimed Theresa. “It won’t take long, I hope. Twenty/Twenty is coming at noon.”
“Half an hour,” Mary Ann replied. “At the very most. I just need to talk to him about the stuff I want.” She turned to Brian. “Will you be all right for a while?”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Theresa.
“Great,” said Mary Ann, backing off.
Theresa turned to him. “C’mon. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
She led him out of the screening room through padded gray flannel corridors trimmed in chrome. “Were you a big fan of my husband’s?”
“The biggest,” he answered.
She shot a wicked glance in his direction. “I hope that’s not false advertising.”
By the time he had figured out her meaning, she had brought him to a halt in front of double doors, also flannel-covered. “I’ll show you something you won’t see on Twenty/Twenty. ” She flung open the doors to reveal an Olympic-size bedroom lined with lighted Lucite boxes. Showcased in the boxes were dozens of pickaninny dolls—“coon art” from the thirties and forties. Cookie jars shaped like black mammies, Uncle Tom ashtrays, Aunt Jemima posters.
“This is amazing,” he said.
The rock widow shrugged it off. “Bix was always just a little bit sorry he wasn’t born black. That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.” She moved to a huge chest of drawers near the bed. “This is.” With a flourish, she yanked open one of the drawers.
He was dumbfounded. “Uh … underwear?”
“Panties, silly.”
He shifted uneasily. What the fuck was he supposed to say?
“From his fans, ” explained Theresa, removing one of them from a
Mona’s favorite song from that album had been “Quick on My Feet.” Brian had found “Turn Away” more to his taste, and here, gleaming at his fingertips, was the platinum record heralding its success.
“Look at this, ” whispered Mary Ann, as they moved along the trophy-laden tables in the late rock star’s screening room. “She’s even raided the liquor cabinet.” She lifted a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort.
Brian read the tag on it. “Yeah, but he drank out of that with Janis Joplin.”
“Big deal,” murmured his wife. “Who cares?”
Was she spoiling for a fight? He cared a great deal, and she knew it. “It’s history,” he said at last. “For some people, anyway.”
She made a little grunting noise and kept moving. “How about this?” she asked, indicating a broken toaster. “Is this history?”
The playful look in her eyes kept him from getting angry. “You’d sure as hell think so if this were Karen Carpenter’s estate sale.”
Her eyes became hooded. “That was low, Brian.”
He chuckled, pleased with himself.
“And I wasn’t that big a fan.”
He shrugged. “You bought her albums.”
She groaned as she examined a box of plastic forks. “I bought an album, Brian. Stop being so hipper-than-thou.”
The debate was cut short by the arrival of their hostess. She swept into the room wearing a black angora sweater over black Spandex slacks. Mary Ann nudged Brian. “Mourning garb,” she whispered.
“Hi, people!” The rock widow strode toward them.
“Hi,” echoed Mary Ann, practically chirping. For all her private bad-mouthing, his wife was intimidated by Theresa Cross. Brian could always tell that by the tone of her voice, and it always brought him closer to her.
“Is your crew here yet?” asked Theresa.
“Any minute,” Mary Ann assured her. “They must have had a little trouble finding the …”
“Did you see the Harley?” Now the rock widow was talking to him, having dispensed with media matters.
“Sure did,” he replied.
“Isn’t it the best?”
Mary Ann’s cameraman appeared in the doorway. “There he is,” she said.
“Fabulous,” exclaimed Theresa. “It won’t take long, I hope. Twenty/Twenty is coming at noon.”
“Half an hour,” Mary Ann replied. “At the very most. I just need to talk to him about the stuff I want.” She turned to Brian. “Will you be all right for a while?”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Theresa.
“Great,” said Mary Ann, backing off.
Theresa turned to him. “C’mon. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
She led him out of the screening room through padded gray flannel corridors trimmed in chrome. “Were you a big fan of my husband’s?”
“The biggest,” he answered.
She shot a wicked glance in his direction. “I hope that’s not false advertising.”
By the time he had figured out her meaning, she had brought him to a halt in front of double doors, also flannel-covered. “I’ll show you something you won’t see on Twenty/Twenty. ” She flung open the doors to reveal an Olympic-size bedroom lined with lighted Lucite boxes. Showcased in the boxes were dozens of pickaninny dolls—“coon art” from the thirties and forties. Cookie jars shaped like black mammies, Uncle Tom ashtrays, Aunt Jemima posters.
“This is amazing,” he said.
The rock widow shrugged it off. “Bix was always just a little bit sorry he wasn’t born black. That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.” She moved to a huge chest of drawers near the bed. “This is.” With a flourish, she yanked open one of the drawers.
He was dumbfounded. “Uh … underwear?”
“Panties, silly.”
He shifted uneasily. What the fuck was he supposed to say?
“From his fans, ” explained Theresa, removing one of them from a
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