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  “I’ll ride,” I said. “I’m about hiked out.”

  “Fine. Can I get you anything before we leave, Kate? Maybe you’d prefer to be in the living room.”

  Kate shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You could bring me the cordless telephone, though. I think I’ll give Sylvie a call.”

  “Won’t she be at the festival getting ready?” I asked.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so, she’s only got the one line.”

  “If you need a ride, give me a call,” Emma said. “After I drop Bil off, I’m heading straight home. Hugh will be getting restless.”

  “Hugh will be sound asleep.”

  “Mind your own business, Bil.” Then to Kate, “I’ll call you.”

  Kate was lighting up another cigarette when we left. I followed my mother around the front of the house to the car.

  “So,” I said, determined to beat my mother to the punch, “what are you doing here?”

  “Acting as your chauffeur,” she replied. She turned the key, and after a long minute of grinding, the car roared to life.

  “Don’t be facetious. You haven’t been out here in years. What gives?”

  She said nothing until we were at the end of the driveway, which was even longer than the drive at Fort Sister. The house itself was completely hidden from the road, and the end of the driveway was poorly marked by a couple of pole reflectors stuck into the ground on either side. It would be easy to miss in the dark, unless you knew what you were looking for.

  “What do you think gives?” she asked, pulling out into the highway and accelerating rapidly. “Considering Sam’s involvement, I thought the courteous thing to do was to pay her a visit.”

  “Bullshit. Why didn’t you call her then?”

  “Who says I didn’t?”

  “So you did call her. Did you tell her about Sam or did you wait until the sheriff’s department did the dirty work for you?”

  Emma tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, her jaw set in a stubborn line. “I’m not answering impertinent questions, not from someone who vanishes for an entire weekend and then turns up with some cockamamie story about sleeping out at Fort Sister and driving strange women home from the park.”

  “You really are the limit, you know that? I was at Tipper’s, and I did drive a strange . . . well actually, she wasn’t a strange woman at all, she was a perfectly normal woman. She was Sylvie Wood, in fact. You can’t get much more normal than that, can you? After all, you’ve just been chewing the fat with her mother.”

  Emma hit the brakes hard, pulling off to the side of the road. She stared at me intently. My mother’s eyes are a hard, blue-gray. Sam’s the only one of us who has ever been able to resist her when she turns on that cobra-like glare.

  “What are you up to?” she asked. “Or should I say what are you and Sylvie up to?”

  I met her gaze squarely. “You haven’t talked to Granny, have you?”

  “I told you, she’s not speaking to me. What’s she got to do with it anyway?”

  I thought about my father, sitting at home, waiting to spring the one piece of news that he’d ever heard first. I also thought about saving my own hide with a quick confession. Coming out to my mother on the way to Fort Sister while steam poured out of her ears was not in my revised master plan.

  “I’ve been doing your dirty work,” I said at last, keeping my voice carefully modulated between apology and indignation. “I ran into Sylvie at the festival last night, and we talked about her father. I told her what little Sam knew, and then asked a few questions in turn. I was doing a little private investigating.” Now for the hard part. “I don’t know any more now than I knew before I talked to her.”

  Her eyes grew smaller for a fraction of a second. Then, she relaxed. “It’s a waste of time trying to help your brother,” she said, pulling the car back out onto the highway. “He’s certainly not interested in helping himself. He’s off with that slut today, living the life of Riley.”

  “Emma,” I said slowly, “what happened with you and Kate? I mean all those years ago. We used to go over to her house quite a lot, and then we stopped. Did you have a fight or something?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. We just drifted apart. Different lives, different interests. After Burt took off, she withdrew, cloistering herself up at the farm. I’ve seen her here and there over the past several years, but at some point, we just stopped visiting.”

  “What puzzles me,” I went on, “is how he could have just disappeared. He must have changed his name and started all over again somewhere else. That seems really weird to me. This story that he ran off with Frank so they could go somewhere and be gay together doesn’t make any sense. It can’t have been that big a deal to be gay in 1978.”

  “Cowslip in 1978 was no different than Cowslip in 1958. Things change slowly here.”

  “I’m just surprised that the cops didn’t try to find them. They might not have been all that interested in Burt, but Frank stole a fat wad of money from the county.”

  “That money reappeared in the county coffer. Frank’s father put it back.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “It’s common knowledge.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel again. “Frank was a petty criminal, a small-time thief, and one of the local pot suppliers. I don’t think he dealt in hard drugs, he wasn’t the type. Still, most people were glad to see him go, particularly his father.”

  She pulled into the Captain’s driveway and stopped at the gate, which was still open.

  “You’re not going to drive me up to the house?”

  “I think not,” she replied. “You know I don’t approve of guns. Schwartz is bound to be up there, practicing her John Wayne act for the turkey shoot.”

  I grinned at her. “Maybe I’ll enter this year. I’m a crack shot—toss a beer can in the air, and I can plug it three times before it hits the ground.”

  “How charming. Please let me know when you can rope and spit.”

  I blew her a kiss and opened the car door.

  “Oh, Bil?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with it. You were no more hiking in those brand-spanking new Dr. Martens of yours than I was in Kate’s kitchen flying a kite. Sooner or later, you’ll tell me what you were doing up there on that hillside, spying down on us.”

  Why do I bother to lie to my mother?

  Chapter 15

  Tipper was working the booth when I arrived. He said that Suzy had indeed covered for me and that no one had particularly minded.

  “I wondered if you’d make it,” he said, one eyebrow raised in accusation. “You and Sylvie left my place pretty late.”

  “How do you know, did you wait up?”

  “I have a life of my own,” he sniffed. “You’re not the only one who can find alternative uses for the dugouts.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t see you. I might never have gotten over the shock.”

  “I’m sure you’d have survived. Besides, we were just admiring the stars. I do my trysting indoors on the Sealy Posturepedic, not out in the open air.”

  “Uh-huh. And just who is we? One of the Faeries?”

  He looked off in the opposite direction. “It’s turning cold, isn’t it? I do believe we’re in for an early winter.”

  “Fine. Shall I guess? My own personal pick would be . . .”

  “Hush,” he said quickly. “That’s information you’ll have to earn. First, you sit down and tell me all about your nuit d’amour with Sylvie Wood.”

  He was sorry to hear that there was nothing to tell, or at least nothing I was willing to tell. After much prodding, I did confess to more than a passing interest in her.

  “Well then, we really must give you a makeover,” he observed, casting a disapproving eye over me.

  I examined my T-shirt. It was a bit ragged, but the picture of Mr. Bubble on the front was still bright. “What are you talking about, a new wardrobe
and a trip to the Clinique counter?”

  “No makeup for you, sweetie. You’d look about as convincing as Suzy.”

  I was hurt. “That’s how I’d look in makeup?”

  Tipper grabbed my chin and examined me mercilessly. “Yes,” he replied. “And don’t fall to pieces. All I mean is that you’re handsome, not pretty. What you need is sprucing up. Honey, you’ve got to lose Mr. Bubble and get yourself a suit and tie.”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Good lord. I can’t wear that kind of stuff in Cowslip. It’s terminally casual out here. Besides, isn’t that, well . . .” I struggled to find the right word.

  He flapped the edge of his pleated kilt at me. “Advertising? Flaunting it? You bet. Listen to me, Bil, have I ever steered you wrong? You’ve got to quit schlepping around in raggedy-ass jeans and disreputable T-shirts. Tomorrow, you and I are going shopping.”

  “Hold on a minute, Professor Higgins. How do you know Sylvie’s going to go for the suit and tie?”

  “I have an unerring dyke instinct, honed through years of studying my mother and her tribe. I have a doctorate in lesbian anthropology. You could use a haircut, too,” he observed. “Your short back and sides has gotten a bit shaggy.”

  “Do you mind?” I freed my chin from his grasp.

  “So,” he continued, “what was the outing fallout? You seem to have come through it unscathed.”

  I related the complete story of my conversation with Hugh.

  “So, that’s one parent down and one to go. Do you really think he’ll tell your mother, or will he wait for you to do it?”

  I shrugged. “At this point, I don’t care. If he tells her, fine. If my grandmother tells her, that’s fine, too. To tell you the truth, I was more worried about telling Hugh. My mother is melodramatic, but she’s all thunder and smoke. I didn’t know how my father would react. I didn’t think he’d suddenly embrace the Old Testament, but I did think he might be a little shocked.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “What will I do for a coming-out story? Where’s the drama? People say, ‘I told my dad, and he threw me out of the house,’ or, ‘I told my mother, and she fell over dead.’ Well, I told my dad, and he made me a cup of coffee.”

  “It’ll never play in Peoria,” he agreed, “but I still say lucky old you. Would that everyone’s father was such a gem.”

  “I don’t mean to complain.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t talk, can I? My mother is the Great Dyke Hope, and I never had to come out because I was never in. Suzy, on the other hand, has been reliving the torments of Exodus ever since he came here. I’m afraid the Reverend Jones strikes a little too close to home.”

  “You know what they say about the preacher’s kid.”

  “Do I ever. Suzy is wild, wild, wild.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “At the March on Washington last year. We had a kiss-in on the Capitol steps . . .”

  In some amazement, I said, “Your dugout date wasn’t Suzy, was it?”

  “Close your mouth,” he replied, “I can see your molars.” I gave him a friendly shove, knocking him off balance. “All right, all right. No, it wasn’t Suzy.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. Was it by any chance Tom?” The tops of his ears turned crimson, so I knew I’d hit the mark. “I heartily approve. I’ll never kiss anyone with a big bushy mustache, so you’ll have to tell me what it’s like.”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” he said, pinching my thigh. “It’s bad for your health.”

  The booth did a steady business up until show time. We sold three hundred dollars’ worth of bumper stickers and T-shirts, and only a few people looked at us askance. The Reverend Jones walked by once, and Tipper and I smiled at him sweetly. He didn’t stop. The Captain arrived at five o’clock sharp, toting a twenty-five-pound turkey she’d won at the black powder competition.

  “First prize?” Tipper asked.

  “Grand prize,” she replied. “Cedar Tree is loading the potatoes into the truck.”

  “How many this year?”

  “Four boxes, a hundred pounds.”

  “Christ, we’ll be eating spuds thrice daily till Christmas.”

  “And counting yourself lucky,” the Captain said. “First prize was five bushels of wheat and a certificate to get your tires rotated. I’ll just stick this bird in the ice-chest here, and you and Bil can head off to the show. You don’t want to miss it.”

  The town had turned out in force for the final night of Cowslip Back Then. Tipper and I could scarcely find space on a hay bale. I spied my mother and Kate sitting together down front.

  “Emma’s trying to make up for last night,” I whispered to Tipper. “Granny’s not speaking to her because she skipped Saturday’s performance. Mark my words, my mother will be clapping and whistling like she’s never seen the damn thing before.”

  “The things we do to keep on Mama’s good side,” he said.

  Emma and I were the only representatives of the Hardy family in attendance. My mother could never coax, bully, or cajole Hugh to get up out of Archie Bunker and attend, and my sisters and Sam always contrived to have some pressing engagement—reference hours, a client, emergency surgery, or an imminent arrest. When Granny died, I’d better inherit everything.

  Kate looked a bit pale, but otherwise, she seemed to have recovered from her fall. She and my mother were chatting amiably, and I wished I could read lips. Sitting side by side, the contrast between them was striking. Emma was a little over five feet tall, sturdy and compact. In fact, she was built exactly like my father, only with breasts. Kate was tall, like her daughter, with well-developed arms and legs. I suspected she ran or worked out. She seemed to be in good shape, even if she did smoke like a diesel truck.

  The play began, and Sylvie delivered her line beautifully. After she left the stage, I closed my eyes and leaned against Tipper. My two hikes up over the ridge were beginning to catch up with me. When I opened my eyes again, the curtain had dropped and the audience was clapping wildly. My mother was in the lead, hooting and whistling like a sailor.

  Family members and local dignitaries were invited to the cast party, so after the third curtain call, we got up and headed backstage with the other royalty.

  Part of the stage was set up to look like a frontier store. I found Sylvie in front of the counter, sitting on a pickle barrel. I walked over and took her hand, shaking it vigorously.

  “You were terrific! Top notch. Broke a leg.”

  She laughed. “Call the Academy and tell them to hold the Oscar. I’ll pick it up after the party.”

  The room behind the stage was hot, crowded, and noisy. Someone had brought a tape player, which was blaring selections from Gilbert and Sullivan through its tinny speakers. Along one wall was a buffet. Trays of hors d’oeuvres filled one end of the table, and bottles of gin, vodka, Scotch, and mixers sat at the other. Fred Maguire was acting as bartender, dipping ice out of a cooler with his bare hands. Behind him, in a far corner, Emma was deep in conversation with Helen Merwin. Granny had her back to both of them, and she was talking to Millicent and a couple of their blue-rinse buddies.

  I asked Sylvie and Tipper what they wanted to drink.

  “Gin and tonic,” Tipper replied. “A slice of lime if they have it, lemon if they don’t.”

  “I expect you’ll get neither. How about you, Sylvie?”

  “I’ll have the same,” she said, “and would you bring me an egg salad sandwich and one of those little quiches? Oh, and some chips and salsa. I’m starving!”

  I smiled and bowed. Then I made my way to Fred, who beamed at me happily, his makeup rolling off in large beads of sweat down his forehead. “Ms. Bil Hardy, what can I get for you?”

  “Two gin and tonics and a plain orange juice,” I said. As he got the drinks, I thought I ought to add something about his performance, which was over-the-top, as usual. “You were very convincing.”

  He smiled and poured
an extra jigger of gin into each of the glasses. “Thank you, thank you very much. Your grandmother is a pleasure to work with.”

  “I’m sure,” I replied laconically.

  “Tisk, tisk,” he said. “You don’t give her enough credit.” He leaned in close and whispered in a husky voice, “Have you spoken to her yet? I mean, I’m sure you heard about last night.”

  I pulled back defensively. He reached out a pudgy hand and pulled me back. “Don’t worry, you’re among family.”

  Oh great, Uncle Fred. He went on quickly, “Your grandmother is all talk with this Proposition One thing. There’s nothing she loves better than old theater queens—I’m living proof. If you hadn’t come out, I might have had to.”

  “You?” Though it was common knowledge that Fred Maguire was gay as a goose, I could scarcely believe my ears.

  He must have been reading my mind because he said, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, my closet’s wide, airy, and comfortable, but this Proposition One business is just too much. I’m sure your grandmother will drop it now, and without her grandstanding, it’ll sink like a rock in this town.”

  “I think you overestimate the power of my grandmother,” I said. And you underestimate her homophobia, I added silently.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I remember when your grandfather brought Wilhelmina back here. It was just after World War Two. She hit this town like a tornado. Ruffled up the old girl,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of Millicent, “but she’s handled that smoothly enough. Idaho women are no match for these southern Jezebel types.”

  Somehow, I’d never pictured my grandmother as Jezebel. She was more like Aunt Pitty-Pat. I was about to tell him so when Agnes Merwin spoke up behind me.

  “Hello, Bil,” she said. Agnes made me nervous at the best of times, and I now found myself receiving the full smoky voice and sultry eyes treatment. I was sure it meant nothing. Agnes was the sort of woman who flirted with the world. “A double Scotch, Freddy, on the rocks.”