The Road Taken (34 page)

One hot night that June, at one o’clock in the morning, Hugh and Teddy were awakened by the noise of a crowd. They looked out of the window. There were droves of people running, on the sidewalk and in the street as well, shouting, excited, going to see something. It didn’t take long before Hugh and Teddy, their curiosity piqued, got dressed and went outside to see what was happening. It seemed everyone was rushing to the famous gay bar, the Stonewall, where, Hugh discovered from some people on the street, the most extraordinary event had transpired. The police had raided the club, as usual, but this time the normally meek patrons, led, amazingly, by the more outrageous drag queens, had rebelled. There was a riot going on.

The police had never expected this, nor had anyone else. As soon as the cops started to punch, the drag queens pulled off their wigs and fought back. Following their lead, the gay demonstrators, shouting “Gay power!” were throwing rocks, bricks, bottles, coins, and blows. Windows were shattered, a parking meter was uprooted and used as a weapon, there were bonfires in the street, fires were set in trash cans, and the inmates of the nearby Women’s House of Detention were throwing lighted pieces of toilet paper out of their cells. The mood was both dangerous and festive. When the Tactical Police Force, which had quelled many student riots, arrived on the scene in their helmets and bulletproof vests, the drag queens sang and danced and blew kisses to the crowd, while photographers and newspaper reporters recorded it all. Hugh’s heart was thumping and there were tears of joy in his eyes. My people, he thought.

“What are they doing?” Teddy murmured, embarrassed and nervous.

“Changing the world,” Hugh said.

Perhaps he was being premature, he mused, but when Hugh saw his own look of pride reflected on the faces of the younger gays, he knew he was still young at heart and that what he had always wanted, to be accepted and let alone, was finally in sight. It was here right now, tonight, and it would be a lesson. Nelly queens, he thought in wonder—like me—who would think it?

Now, Hugh thought, I want to live forever, just to see what will come.

Chapter Forty-Two

On a fall day in 1970 Joan read in the newspapers that her former lover, Trevor Winslow, the man who had fathered her child, was starring in an off Broadway production of
Henry V.
And to think she had not taken him seriously years ago when he’d said he wanted to do Shakespeare. She had still thought about him from time to time over the years, remembering him sometimes just as a means to an end, a tool, and sometimes as someone much more romantic, even dramatic. In these dramatic moments she felt Trevor was the Progenitor, in the larger sense, as if he were a part of history and of miracles. She didn’t know if he would remember her or recognize her, but she decided to buy a ticket to the play and afterward to go backstage and look him up.

After that first hurtful Christmas Peggy had begun coming back to the family for holiday celebrations, and although occasionally Joan glanced at her and caught Peggy watching with suspicion, she was able to be friends with Markie again. Not that an old aunt, nearly forty, was so interesting to children who preferred to play with their visiting cousins. Sometimes Joan felt a real wrench, even when she was with Markie, because she had no idea what she could do to change anything, to become closer to her, if indeed she really had the patience to.

Once, this past summer, Peggy had finally allowed Joan to come to Larchmont—for the day with their parents, to attend Peggy and Ed’s Fourth of July picnic. Lost in the midst of the patriotic festivities, Joan was aware of all the things her sister did so well that she could not do: give enormous parties for family and friends, entertain children, plan fun. If it had not been clear before, it finally became irrevocably clear to her that Markie already had a complete life, there with Peggy and Ed and her siblings, with her friends and her school, and that nothing Joan the interloper said or did would change that; it was too late.

She wished Peggy would understand this, but she was tired of trying to appease people and she didn’t bring it up. Later, Joan told Rose.

How odd, Joan thought, that the person she was closest to these days was her mother. The two of them had never been at war, but lately it was as if they had declared a relaxing and lovely truce. Rose understood what Joan had done for Peggy. Rose loved her. And Joan, who had not really thought about it before, realized that she loved her mother much more than she had known.

She was trying to take control of her life now, since she had realized she would have control of no one else’s. It was very important that she see Trevor again, if only to attain closure. And, she had to admit, she was curious about him. When she remembered him she was still physically attracted to him. She wondered how much he had changed.

She wore a stylish new midi skirt to the play, and took a taxi instead of the subway. It was a tiny theater, so from her second-row seat she was almost on top of him. He looked twelve years older, of course, but once she had gotten used to the difference she decided he was more handsome than ever. She wondered if he was married. He was even good in the lead and she was impressed. If he had been bad she would have been embarrassed to seek him out backstage, no matter what their history was.

There was a couple in his dressing room congratulating him, while she hung back, but then they left, and Joan was alone with Trevor. “Do you remember me?” she asked, at the same moment he was exclaiming, “Joan!”

“Well, I guess you do remember me,” Joan said.

“Joan Coleman,” Trevor said. He kissed her lightly on the lips. “What a delightful surprise.” The electricity, she realized, was still there, at least for her.

“You were excellent,” Joan said. “I mean that.”

“Still studying all these years. Out on the Coast. I’ve been living in Hollywood, you know. Or maybe you don’t know. You didn’t call, and you disappeared, but even after I moved West I kept hoping you’d get in touch again.”

She was surprised and flattered. “I didn’t know where,” Joan said.

“All struggling actors are in the phone book.”

“Ah, silly me.”

“You and I had a nice little thing going, didn’t we?” he said.

A nice little thing? Yes, she supposed one could call it that. How amazed he would be to find out he had a twelve-year-old daughter, but of course she would never tell him. “My name isn’t Coleman anymore, it’s Carson,” Joan said.

“You got married.”

“No. When you met me I had changed my name because I was hiding from my family. We’d had a sort of contretemps. But everything’s okay now.”

“I got married,” Trevor said. “Then I got divorced.”

“Yes, well, that seems to be the trend.”

“She didn’t want to be married to an actor. A star would have pleased her, though.”

Joan smiled. “Are you going to buy me a drink?”

“I’d love to.”

She waited while he took off his makeup and changed, noticing that he seemed a bit uncomfortable at the instant intimacy. He was probably still disgruntled because she had left him in such an odd way. Why would he be upset? Lots of men had left her without so much as a warm good-bye, and she was sure women had done the same to him. Trevor had liked her, she realized. Maybe he had even loved her. They had said, that one time, that they did.

“How’s your grandfather?” he asked.

“My grandfather?”

“Wasn’t he dying?”

“Yes. He died.”

He took her to a small Irish bar in the neighborhood. It was dark and smelled damply of beer. She was drinking white wine now instead of vodka, and Trevor suggested getting a bottle because the house wine by the glass, he said, was like battery acid. There were people in other booths whom he knew and he waved at them, and they waved back cheerfully, making “join us” motions, but he shook his head.

“I’ve got a sublet here in New York for the run of the play,” he said, “but I’m still keeping my little apartment in Hollywood. I want to continue to do television.” He told her the shows he’d been on, and she admitted she hardly ever watched TV.

“I’m an editor now,” she said. “At night I have to read manuscripts.” And in the old days I went out all the time, she thought, but I won’t tell him that.

“Good for you,” Trevor said. “I knew someday you’d have an interesting career.”

“Did you? I didn’t.”

“Why did you leave me that way?” he asked. “Did you get bored?”

“We always remember the ones who disappear,” Joan said. It seemed a long time ago when she had thought that.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“No, I’m not. It happens to be an observation.”

“So if you aren’t married, do you have a serious boyfriend?”

“No.”

“I don’t have anyone now either.”

“We were too young,” Joan said by way of an explanation. “It was bad timing.”

“How about some dinner? Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. She knew she couldn’t chew or swallow anything and realized she was nervous. He was making her nervous because she was still attracted to him and she still liked him. She hadn’t liked him enough the first time, but now, Joan thought, she could
make
herself like him even fall in love with him. If he cared about her, too . . . She had wanted closure, well, this would be a different kind of closure.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you again,” Trevor said.

When they had finished the bottle of wine they walked for a while and he put her into a cab. He had told her he lived in the neighborhood, but he didn’t ask her if she wanted to come up to his apartment. Joan was rather glad. She was afraid to sleep with him. He took her phone number and asked her if she would have dinner with him on Monday night when the theater was dark, and she said yes.

Her mind was already whirling. I want a date, she thought. I want a relationship. I’m exhausted from being alone. And at least I know him already. The Progenitor. I could have another baby with Trevor. What is it about him that makes me want to get pregnant again with him? I never wanted to be pregnant again, it was never an issue or even a thought. Maybe it’s his looks. I know our children would be beautiful. It’s not his character; I don’t even know if he would be a decent father. But I’m probably too old to have another baby anyway.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him and wondered if he was thinking about her. After he called to tell her where to meet him he got off the phone right away. The idea of the two of them having a date was so strange. Maybe not to him, but certainly to her.

If Trevor still likes me and I still like him, Joan thought, maybe this will be our second chance. What a stupid time to want to settle down, when everyone around me is splitting up, or cheating, or mate-swapping. But I’m so sick of that life; I’ve done it forever, it seems. Maybe I could even marry him. Wouldn’t that shock everybody: Joan becoming normal!

On Monday night he took her to dinner at a little French restaurant not far from her apartment, a fact Joan was very conscious of, and again she couldn’t eat a thing. He seemed concerned by that, and she thought either he had changed and matured by being married and having to deal with a woman, or that losing her had made her seem more valuable. He seemed genuinely interested in her life and told her about his, and after the meal he paid the check and didn’t ask her to share.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

She asked him to come up for a drink. At last he actually seemed as nervous as she was, and Joan liked him for that. But once he was in her apartment, the moment he touched her, it seemed natural to resume what they had done years ago. They had been a good sexual match, and they still were.

“What does this mean?” he asked. That was the line the woman usually spoke, Joan thought.

“It means what you want it to,” she said.

“Could we try our romance again?”

“Who’s going to disappear this time?” Joan said. “You, to Hollywood?”

“Would you come with me? I know you care about your job. . . .”

Did you never hear about a bicoastal relationship, she thought. “Let’s see how it goes,” she said, reaching for him.

They were inseparable after that. It was not so hard to force herself to fall in love. Just one little jump over the hurdle of her fear and she landed safely. She could love him. It was all right. The first time, years ago, she had forced herself not to fall in love, but there had been a reason for it. This time there was a reason to allow herself to be weak.

At her invitation Trevor gave up his apartment and moved in with her, contributing to the rent. “I’m not rich, but my father doesn’t have to send me money anymore,” he said. “That’s a relief.”

Joan was aware that at this point in his life he was unlikely to make much money, unless he became unexpectedly successful, but it was clear he got along, and she could help. The moment she had thought of giving up her career she had realized how much it meant to her to be independent. She didn’t intend to give up working. And she
liked
her job. When she informed him of her decision he was more amenable than she had expected him to be; he actually was pleased. She told him she could never have married an old-fashioned man who wanted a conventional wife, and without blinking he began to talk about marriage.

“I remember you told me you couldn’t have children,” Trevor said. “I don’t mind.”

“Did I say that?” Joan asked. “Well, it turns out I can.”

He didn’t press for details and she supposed he thought she’d once had an abortion, if he thought anything at all. “I’m not poor, but I’m afraid I can never afford to have a baby,” Trevor said. “I would want our child to have advantages.”

Our child does, Joan thought. “Let’s see how it goes,” she said again.

She didn’t say anything to her family about Trevor, until she brought him to dinner and then, of course, her parents knew. She had never brought a man home before. He charmed Rose and Ben, as Joan had known he would. The next time he came to dinner Hugh and Teddy were there, and Ginger. Trevor took it all in stride. I’ll take him, Joan thought.

When his play finished its run, Trevor got a continuing part in a soap opera that was being shot in New York. Joan knew this was a compromise because of her. He had always wanted to become a movie star, or have a continuing role in a television series, but, she thought, the compromise might also be for himself. He was tired of reaching for something that might be impossible, of being rejected, and he had begun to understand that it was the work itself that counted, the ability to act, no matter where the opportunity was. And the money, after all, was quite good.

“Being here in New York will make it easier for you to be in a play,” Joan said encouragingly. “You’re so versatile.”

Throughout her two relationships with this man she now loved there had been so many secrets kept from him that sometimes it made her sad. Marianne’s death, her own family problems, and finally the birth of Markie, all secrets. Now, as they talked about marriage, Joan was reminded that he would be recognized as a member of Markie’s family, and yet he would never know the truth and neither would anyone else. Their daughter, hers and Trevor’s, would be hiding in plain sight.

She felt a reckless yearning sometimes to tell him everything, but she knew she could not. There were children everywhere who did not know the identity of their birth parents, and fathers who had never met their children. Joan had made peace with all the events of her life, except for one, and she had made peace with that one as well as she could. She would never tell Trevor about their child. It was not a betrayal, it was survival; not so much his survival but her own. He didn’t have to know.

One day near the holidays, near Markie’s birthday, near all the times that had been so important to her, she and Trevor went downtown to City Hall and eloped. Peter and Ginger were their witnesses. Then they went back to their apartment and had a cocktail party for everyone they were fond of. The guests had no idea there had been a marriage until Joan announced it.

“How could you do this to me?” Rose said. “I wanted to be at your wedding.” But Joan knew she wasn’t really upset. She was just relieved.

“Ginger is next,” Ben said.