DEDICATION
For Christopher Turner,
my beloved husband
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is largely an account of my youth, that is to say the thirty-some years it took me to claim my truth. (In a few places in the narrative I’ve skipped forward briefly for the sake of completing a tale.) You may already have read some of these remembrances—in interviews and newspaper essays, or thinly disguised in one of my novels—so please know I reserve the right to plagiarize myself. I have reconstructed long-ago scenes and conversations to the best of my ability. I’ve tried not to imagine anyone’s thoughts but my own.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Epilogue: Letter To Mama (1977)
Acknowledgments
Photographic Sources
About the Author
Also by Armistead Maupin
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN Raleigh I was afraid of being locked in Oakwood Cemetery overnight. Every Sunday after church, when our blue-tailed white Pontiac cruised through the entrance, I fretted about the sign posted above us: GATES LOCKED AT 6 PM. I never voiced this fear to my parents, but it hovered over me like a threatening storm cloud all afternoon. What if we lose track of the time? That could easily happen as we plucked dandelions from my grandfather’s grave or posed sullenly for Daddy’s never-ending slides, rigid as garden gnomes. Our family plot was on a rise with the other Nice Families, a respectable distance from the gate, so the caretaker, a runny-eyed old man who kept a spittoon in his granite cubbyhole, might overlook us when he left for home. That enormous gate would clang shut, and we would be trapped there all night, eating acorns for survival, drinking dew off the lilies—my brother, my sister, my parents, and me—Cemetery Family Robinson.
This was not your usual ghoulish graveyard terror, since I found the cemetery anything but spooky. I loved its winding lanes and tilting stones, the way its pale-green dells were flecked with pink in the spring. I reveled in its rich hieroglyphics, all those corroding angels and renegade jonquils, the palpable antiquity of the place. This was our family seat, after all, the ground to which I would return someday, permanently planted among my ancestors. So what was so scary about that? Folks in Raleigh might assume it had to do with the way my grandfather had died. But I wouldn’t learn about that until later, when I was well into my teens and the matter of why we came to the cemetery every Sunday would finally be explained. Even then, though, my focus would remain on the writing on the stones, not on what actually lay in the boxes beneath them.
Oakwood Cemetery was not just the landscape of our past but also the very blueprint of our family for years to come. My father would eventually lay out the rules for his children in a self-published family history called “Prologue,” so named for a famous line in The Tempest: “What’s past is prologue.” Antonio uses the phrase to explain his intention to commit murder. My father used it to justify bragging about his ancestors, and he murdered the truth more than once in the process.
“One thing is certain,” the old man wrote after rattling off a roll call of all the lawyers, governors, planters, and generals in our family, “is that wherever one of these men met success, there was a self-effacing and goodly lady by his side.”
Back then I was still too young to realize that there would never be a lady by my side, goodly or otherwise. Nor would I have noticed how the old man had summarily reduced his wife and daughter to dutiful handmaidens. I felt only this shapeless longing, an oddly grown-up ennui born of alienation and silence. Some children experience this feeling very early on, long before we learn its name and finally let our headstrong hearts lead the way to True North. We grow up as another species entirely, lone gazelles lost amid the buffalo herd of our closest kin. Sooner or later, though, no matter where in the world we live, we must join the diaspora, venturing beyond our biological family to find our logical one, the one that actually makes sense for us. We have to, if we are to live without squandering our lives.
So maybe I was beginning to understand something on those Sunday afternoons in the cemetery. Maybe I sensed I didn’t belong there, now or forever, that my true genealogy lay somewhere beyond these gates, with another tribe.
ONE
MY MOTHER HELPED ME WITH MY very first effort at writing. We were living in a duplex in Raleigh, on Forest Road, near the new shopping center. Out in California a three-year-old girl had fallen down an abandoned well, and I was determined to console her. I was only a few years older than this child, so my mother must have taken dictation. I couldn’t begin to tell what I said. What could I have said?
I’m sorry you fell down a well.
Please don’t be sad.
I hope they get you out soon.
What I do remember is how I’d pictured this letter being delivered: someone dropping it directly into the well, like a wishful coin consigned to a fountain, before it drifted down through the clammy darkness into the little girl’s outstretched hands. I figured she would be expecting the letter, awaiting my words of comfort. And my words, if I just chose them carefully enough, would save her in the end.
I suppose my mother must have heard a mailing address on the radio, one provided by the family. Either that or she never mailed the letter at all, intending it only as an exercise in empathy, a homemade remedy for her heartsick, overimaginative child.
The point is: I remember nothing, happy or sad, about the fate of Little Kathy Fiscus. A quick Googling reveals her name and the fact that her attempted rescue in 1949 was one of the first calamities ever to be broadcast live on television. I know now that the well was only eighteen inches wide and that the rescuers recovered Kathy’s body a hundred feet beneath the field where she’d been playing three days earlier. The doctor who broke the news to thousands of rapt onlookers said she had died of suffocation only hours after “the last time her voice was heard.” A haunting detail, but one I don’t remember. I would surely have remembered that voice.
My mother must have changed the subject as soon as the truth was known, distracting me with a Little Golden Book or an antiques store. (I enjoyed antiquing at a revealingly early age.) My mother spent most of her life withholding things, shielding her children and her husband from uncomfortable truths. I’m sure she must have learned this at the feet of her own mother, an English suffragette who had a few doozies of her own to hide. Still, my mother believed in the curative power of letters. She must have written thousands over the years. When she wasn’t at The Bargain Box, selling used clothes for the Junior League, or hosting a radio panel show for teenagers, you could hear her writing in her den, clattering away on a millipede of a typewriter that popped out of a desk like a Victorian magic act.
I remember the letters she sent me at summer camp and how I reread them daily like a soldier at the front. There were four or five pages sometimes, covering the front and the back, the type inevitably crawling up the margins to a sideways ballpoint finale. Love, Mummie. That signature was my undoing at camp. Another boy spotted it, and since no kid in his right mind called his mother Mummie, there were immediate
taunts about moldy pharaohs in their tombs, complete with bedsheet impersonations. My mother, who called her own mother Mummie, never knew of my humiliation. By the time I was a teenager I had decided to call her Mither, a name that struck me as elegant and ironic, so the joke could not possibly be on me. I did the same thing with my father who became Pap after years of being called Daddy, a name only children would use. I was learning to build my manly armor with words, being careful, so careful, like my mother.
Her letters were my only balm at Camp Seagull. Those were days of random self-disgrace in the prickly Carolina heat, days of capsized sailboats and fumbled baseballs and arrows landing short of their mark. There was one other kid who felt like a friend, another miserable ectomorph, but he bunked in another cabin, so our time together was limited. Sometimes we would meet up at twilight to walk along the shore of the Neuse River, away from our torturers, swapping notes on the universe as we poked in the sand for sharks’ teeth. (What was his name, goddammit? He looked me up in San Francisco in the early eighties, when a few published novels and a listed phone number made me easy to find. He told me he was gay like me but not very good at it. He liked my books, he said. He seemed so profoundly sad. I’m wondering if he ever made it past the plague, or if he lives with the virus, or if he died in one of the other ways, or if he’s on Facebook right now, like so many people I never expected to hear from again, posting videos of cute interspecies friendships.)
When he wasn’t around, this nameless boy, I would linger in the mess hall after supper and vanish into the comforting whir and flicker of a movie. They were usually war movies, my least favorite kind, but there was always a moment when the gunfire stopped and a lady appeared, a wife or a girlfriend, speaking softly amid soft music. How I craved a woman’s gentleness in that all-boy bedlam. I even considered sharing my anguish with Miss Lil, the wife of Cap’n Wyatt, the camp director. She was the only lady around, and not nearly as glamorous as my mother, but she bore a passing resemblance to Dale Evans and might be a sympathetic ear.
I never worked up the nerve. Nor did I share my homesickness with my mother, though she seemed to sense it from afar. Her letters soothed me with detailed visions of my imminent deliverance: “We’ll put a mattress in the back of the Country Squire so you can stretch out and read to your heart’s content. I’ll have all your favorites, darling—lots of Little Lulus and Uncle Scrooges. Don’t say I don’t mollycoddle you!” I never said that, never even used the word. It was Daddy who believed that sensitive boys could be permanently warped by sympathy. What was the point in making a man out of me if my mother unraveled it with her love?
On the way back to Raleigh, battling in the back of the station wagon with my brother and sister, I felt the sweet relief of our family made whole again. When we played Cow Poker or read aloud the Burma Shave signs, or, in the case of Mummie and me, lobbied my father passionately for a stop at a flea market, it was easy enough to believe that life could always be like this. It was easy to forget that camp had made me glimpse the hardest truth of all: that my mother’s absence would one day be permanent. I had done the arithmetic more than once, lying in bed after taps. She was in her late thirties; in another fifty years she would be dead.
As it turned out my figures were off considerably.
My mother must have known who I was even then. She called me her little Ferdinand, the Disney bull who sat in the pasture and smelled the flowers rather than go out and fight in the ring. It took me another quarter of a century to level with her. It makes sense that I chose to do so in a letter, getting the words exactly right, the way she had taught me. My letter was a work of fiction addressed to a fictional character in “Tales of the City,” but I had poured my heart into it with such naked intimacy that I knew she would realize that the message was meant for her.
I waited for a response, but none came. Not a letter or a phone call that might speak to the long unspoken. Though what right had I, really, to expect an answer? The letter had appeared in a San Francisco newspaper, where millions of people could see it, including my parents in Raleigh, who subscribed to the paper because of my work, but it could hardly be described as an act of bravery. I had avoided the chance of rejection by addressing my message to everyone and no one.
I had thrown it down a well, and there was no voice from the bottom.
TWO
WHEN I WAS SIX, WE MOVED across town to a nicer neighborhood called Budleigh, where our new L-shaped ranch house aspired to colonial charm with dark-green shutters and a superfluous cupola like one you might find on a Howard Johnson’s. With the leftover lumber my father built a playhouse in the backyard that was big enough to hold all three of us kids. For me, it was also a playhouse in the theatrical sense, since there was a porch along one edge that worked wonderfully as a stage. Above the porch, above everything, Daddy had emblazoned a message with my mother’s red nail polish: SAVE YOUR CONFEDERATE MONEY! THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. I already knew this was not especially suited to a production of Jack and the Beanstalk, but I was determined to make the best of what I’d been given.
My brother and sister were too young for the theater, so my costar was Freddy Fletcher from down the street. I played Jack, and Freddy played the bean seller and the Giant. Freddy couldn’t act worth a damn, but he offered other advantages. His father was in show business—an announcer down at WRAL Radio—so, amazingly, the Fletchers had their own mimeograph machine at home. Freddy and I cranked out flyers by the dozens and got giggly drunk on the sweet purple fumes as we passed them out door-to-door on Gloucester Road.
One afternoon, Mr. Fletcher came by our rehearsals after his morning at the station. He was bald and smoked cigars and reminded me of Dennis the Menace’s next-door neighbor in the Sunday funnies. We played our beanstalk scene for him, the one where I climb a bamboo pole to the roof of the playhouse, and he seemed impressed. The next day, though, Freddy showed up with a strange proposal.
“I’ll give you five bucks for something.”
I told him he didn’t have five bucks. I knew this because Freddy and I got the same allowance, and I didn’t have five bucks either. I had probably already spent my last quarter on a matinee of Rear Window and a box of Red Hots at the Village Theater. We were both paupers. We didn’t run around with that kind of money.
Freddy corrected himself. “My daddy will give you five bucks.” He pointed to my father’s message above the playhouse. “If you’ll get rid of that.”
When I asked him what was wrong with that, he just shrugged and went home. I wondered if his father thought the inscription was disrespectful of the South, but that was stupid, since nobody respected the South more than Daddy did. It was just for fun, anyway, like Daddy’s cartoon in the bathroom: the grumpy old Rebel soldier with a Confederate flag and the caption that said: “Forget, Hell!”
That night I told Daddy about Mr. Fletcher’s offer. He was sitting on a stool at the counter between our kitchen and family room, where, almost every night, he sipped bourbon on the rocks and scarfed Triscuits and cheese from a wooden salad bowl. When he heard my story, his face balled up like a big pink fist.
“Fred Fletcher said that? That he would pay you?”
I shrugged. “That’s what Freddy said.”
“Did he say why the hell why?”
I shook my head warily. Daddy’s scattershot anger could be unnerving. Even when he wasn’t mad at you, he sounded like he might be.
“How did he even know about the goddamn thing?”
I told him. Mr. Fletcher came by to watch our rehearsal.
“Presumptuous sonofabitch!”
I hesitated a moment before asking: “Are they Yankees or something?”
“Hell, no.” Daddy thrust a Triscuit into his mouth and chewed ferociously. “They’re from Fuquay Springs. They’re just common.”
Common was worse than Yankee in Daddy’s book. Some Yankees were fine, he said—the genteel ones from New England—but common was just plain common.
Mr. F
letcher’s offer—his “five-buck bribe,” as Daddy described it to Mummie—was never discussed again. The nail-polish manifesto stayed intact, and Mr. Fletcher didn’t come to Jack and the Beanstalk when it opened the next day. His wife, Marjie (whose name did sound a little common once I’d thought about it), arrived on her own with a tray of Rice Krispies treats. I wondered if she’d be upset, but she smiled at me pleasantly as I waited by the playhouse for my entrance.
I was costumed in Rit-dyed green tights and one of Daddy’s old white shirts, cinched at the waist with my webbed Boy Scout belt. I was trying to go over my lines, but I was distracted by Daddy as he yelled at my mother about Mr. Fletcher. (Mummie referred to this as “addressing the jury,” though never to Daddy’s face.)
“. . . sonofabitch thinks he can pay my son to renounce his heritage!”
“All right, darling, lower your voice.” Mummie knew that Marjie Fletcher was seated nearby, and Daddy, of course, knew it, too. He wanted her to hear this.
“You ever listen to that goddamn thing? ‘Tempus Fugit!’ He can tempus my fugit.”
I recognized the name of Mr. Fletcher’s radio program.
“It’s goddamn ridiculous. Fairy tales for grown-ups. Does all the voices, too. Calls himself the Fairy Tale Man. Nobody takes him seriously.”
“Sounds sweet,” my mother offered.
“It ain’t sweet. It’s propaganda. You know what that means? Tempus fugit? Time flies, that’s what. Nothing remains the same. That’s Communist right there!”
My mother caught my eye, hoping for a way out. “Look,” she said brightly. “There’s Teddy! Doesn’t he look stalwart?”
Daddy would not be silenced. “I don’t listen to the damn fool thing, but Hank Haywood heard it down at the Sphinx Club. All these forest creatures rompin’ around in harmony . . . but it ain’t about that at all. It’s about lettin’ niggers in the schools.”