Disco Witches of Fire Island

Chapter 28

28.

Mourning Doves

“The overlords, trapped in their armor of fixed identity, try to decimate the holy lovers with fists and laws, but Disco Witches always fight back—not only for the holy lovers, but for the overlords themselves. When the holy lovers are finally free, all will be free.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #20

The mourning doves that nested in the trees and eaves of 44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff were especially prolific and quite musical. Their songs often reminded Howie of Broadway show tunes, inspiring him, as they did that morning, to begin spontaneously humming while watering the riots of salmon-colored impatiens on the back deck.

“Now what’s that song again?” he asked of the chirping doves. “Oh, right, that’s it. Thank you, ladies.”

It was that most optimistic Broadway gem “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” from the Jerry Herman musical Hello, Dolly! The song was perfect for starting his day off, which, like for most island workers, was Monday and not Sunday. “Put on your Monday clothes lalalalalala …” he sang. When the doves switched to one of Herman’s most heart-wrenching ballads from his lesser known musical Mack and Mabel , Howie shouted through the kitchen window. “Lenny! Get out here! You gotta hear the doves! They’re doing four-part harmony on ‘Time Heals Everything’!”

“It’s that new bird feed from Mulligan’s!” Lenny hollered from the kitchen, where he was preparing his double-meat, three-cheese lasagna. “Twenty percent more sunflower seeds!”

“Well, it’s working!” Howie shouted. “I don’t understand it! I’m feeling such a sense of bliss this morning! The psychic cilia inside my intestines are wiggling with joy for a change!”

“Holy shit!” Lenny called out. “That’s the most positive thing you’ve said in years!”

“I didn’t say I’m not still worried. We still have that blood moon coming Morning Party weekend. And let’s not forget the Great Darkness is still out there. Remember the omens? We’ll still have to be on alert for other confused young people who might be in danger. At least we’re certain Joe is safe.”

“Like I said all along!” Lenny shouted through the kitchen window, with an emphasized “Ha!”

“When you’re right, you’re right.” A slight twinge pierced Howie’s gastrointestinal bliss. “I trust Saint D’Norman’s twirling visions,” he shouted back. “Like the rubric says, if a holy lover misses just one of the five sacred criteria, he’s out of the running.” He knew he didn’t need to say it, but something compelled him. “Nope. We don’t need to even worry. Joe is missing … what was it? Three out of the five, including the all-important flying-heart-mole-thing on his back.” He scoffed. “I checked, you checked, Dory checked. So we’re all good. Triple-checked.”

Lenny stuck his finger out the window and flicked it like he was ticking a box. “You mean quadruple-checked. You forget that Saint D’Norman checked too—and he’s an R-friggin’-N. That kid’s skin is so perfect, he shoulda been a Noxzema model!”

“Exactly,” Howie said. “The age, the recent traumatic heartbreak, and the mole. Three strikes! He’s out. Oh, and he hasn’t mentioned anything about seeing that Gladiator Man in weeks, which is also a relief. If I remember correctly, poor Lucho had seen the egregore at least seven times by midsummer.” There was that gut stab again, and suddenly a shadow fell across the back garden. “So why, on the day I’m the happiest I’ve been in months, am I still getting worry knots in my gut?”

“You wouldn’t be who you are if you didn’t worry,” Lenny said through the window. “It’s like your connective tissue. You’d fall apart without it.” A moment later Lenny emerged from the kitchen door with a cigarette between his lips, a dish rag over his arm, and a Jackson Pollack’s worth of red sauce spatter all over his shirtless chest and belly.

“Great Goddess Mother, what the fuck happened to you?” Howie exclaimed.

“I was cooking,” Lenny said.

“Who’s your sous chef? Jack the Ripper?”

“Whatcha talkin’?”

“You got tomato gravy all over yourself, for goodness’ sake. And why are you smoking those cancer sticks on such a stunning day?”

“Basta!” Lenny took a deeper drag from his Marlboro and wiped the sauce from his gut with the dish rag. “It’s not like I’m smoking three packs a day anymore. Besides, I’m celebrating. I shouldn’t say anything of course—anonymity and all—but my sponsee’s got ninety days clean and sober today.”

Despite Lenny never saying it outright, Howie knew he was talking about Dory’s granddaughter, Elena, and he was thrilled.

“That’s marvelous,” Howie said, dramatically fanning away Lenny’s cigarette smoke. “Leave it to an addict to celebrate someone’s sobriety with another addiction.”

“Small steps. Small steps.” Lenny chuckled. “Now do I need to make plates of lasagna for two or three? Is our wayward Armenian American foster child up yet?”

Howie looked up past the mourning doves in the eaves by the attic vent. “Not yet. I heard him go to bed about five thirty this morning. Alone, as usual.”

Lenny looked to Heaven and shook his head. “Seriously? What a waste. If I looked as good as him, I’d be shish-kebabbing so many bottoms I could open a Greek food truck. ”

“How vivid,” Howie droned à la Bea Arthur before growing serious. “Have you noticed how Joe seems even more out of sorts since Memorial Day? I can’t figure it out. I just wish he’d open up to one of us. I almost got him talking yesterday, but he made up some excuse about needing to buy deodorant before work, when I know he has two sticks of Right Guard in the medicine cabinet.” Howie chewed on his right thumbnail. “I just know something bad must’ve happened that weekend. That’s why my gut is like this. Whatever it was, I sense it’s earthbound—”

“Basta!” Lenny barked. “Why not just friggin’ ask him?”

“How can I ask him? He’s never around. He inhales his meals and then he’s off to bartend or work out or lock himself up in the attic like Rochester’s wife in Jane Eyre —”

The wire of the back door sprung open, and Joe, his hair still mangled from sleep, stepped out onto the deck with a blue flier in his hands. Howie hoped he hadn’t heard them talking.

“Well, look at that!” Howie waved his watering can. “Sleeping Beauty awakens!”

“Morning,” Joe mumbled, his crusty eyes looking intently at the blue mimeograph paper.

“Do you like my flier?” Howie asked. “Dory asked me to design it. She’s throwing a benefit for ACT UP at Asylum Harbor in a couple of weeks.”

“What’s ACT UP?” Joe asked.

“It’s this new AIDS protest group in the city,” Howie said. “Remember Larry, the guy I introduced you to at the bar a few weeks ago? The one who wrote that delicious Liv Ullmann movie musical Lost Horizon ? He and some other folks formed a group to try and get the government to do more about the AIDS crisis. You know, demonstrations, sit-ins, die-ins, things like that. They call themselves ACT UP, which stands for the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power.”

“A bunch of hophead radicals if you ask me,” Lenny grumbled as he plucked fresh basil from the garden.

“Do not start with me, Lenny!” Howie snapped. “Do you expect us to just accept government inaction about AIDS, lying down?”

“Easy there, Jane Fonda.” Lenny raised his voice to match Howie’s, then turned to Joe. “I’m not saying do nothing. It’s just the way they do it—being disrespectful to the police and mayor, causing more straights to hate us. Basta! It’s an embarrassment!”

“An embarrassment?” Howie repeated, seething. “You know what’s an embarrassment, Leonardo Gennaro Vincenzo D’Amico?” He poked a finger into the air. “That in 1976, when twenty-nine white heterosexual men died in Philadelphia from Legionnaire’s disease, the country went mad to find a cure. And now ninety thousand mostly gay men are dead from AIDS, and what is the government doing? Bupkis! They want us dead. Being good, quiet gay boys doesn’t fucking work!”

The emanations from Howie’s own angry aura created a haze over the entire garden. A cluster of mourning doves, their song silenced, scattered to the highest branches of the birch tree. Howie knew arguing with Lenny was a waste of time. More importantly, he didn’t want to be in a bad mood, in case Joe was finally ready to talk.

“Lenny,” Howie said, looking at his watch, “don’t you have to set up your little meeting at the fire house?”

“Shit!” Lenny yipped. “Put the lasagna in the fridge when you’re done making yourselves a plate.”

After Lenny scurried back into the house, a quiet settled over the back deck. Howie noticed how Joe looked both intrigued and disturbed as he studied the ACT UP flyer.

“Do you like it?” Howie asked. “I did my best to be lighthearted but also serious.”

“Do you think any of that protest stuff could make any difference?” Joe said.

“I do. We need to stay angry but also remain hopeful. It’s difficult.” Howie lowered his voice. “Don’t tell Lenny, but Dory and I have been to a few ACT UP actions.”

Joe smiled. “You carried picket signs and everything?”

“Yes,” Howie whispered. “We even got arrested at City Hall.”

Joe scrunched his thick eyebrows. “No way. You and Dory went to jail?”

“Only for about eight hours. It was fabulous! Screaming my lungs out for Mayor Koch to come out of the closet and do something about AIDS. It was the most therapeutic thing I’ve done in ages. If I weren’t stuck out here, I’d do more, but I do what I can. Don’t mention anything about me going to jail. It wouldn’t be good for Lenny’s heart.”

“No worries.” Joe looked again at the blue flier. “Why’s he so against it?”

“His Roman Catholic internalized homophobia mostly. He thinks we need to be martyrs to get anywhere. Funny thing is, he used to be a total radical back in the day.”

“Lenny? You’re kidding.”

Howie shook his head. “Both of us were at the second night of the Stonewall riots. He threw beer cans at the cops. Ever since he passed fifty, he’s become his mother.” Howie sighed. “The thing is you have to make a ruckus if you want change. No, there isn’t a cure yet, but there never will be if we don’t demand they look for one. As that Irish poet who drank himself to death at the White Horse Tavern said, ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ ” Joe’s eyes remained fixed on the flier. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just go into a rage about AIDS?”

Joe pulled a birch leaf from a low-hanging branch. “Sometimes … no—always. But it doesn’t do any good in the end.”

Howie squinted. The brownish green in Joe’s aura was a signifier that he was unable to release something acutely painful—a psychic bramble stuck to his soul.

“Joe,” he said softly. “What is it?”

“I just don’t like to think about that stuff. It makes me sad.”

Of course. Howie saw it so clearly now. “AIDS has taken someone from you, hasn’t it? Someone very important?”

Joe looked down at the tray of impatiens and flicked at the soft, tooth-edged leaves. His murky aura became streaked with shimmers of blackness. Inside those shimmers Howie saw windowless walls, devastation, lies, yearning, loss, loss, loss.

How awful that someone so young should have lost such a love. No wonder his aura had looked the way it had. But then another realization—with the loss of his love, that meant it wasn’t actually three strikes against the rubric. It was only two. Thankfully, two was plenty to disqualify Joe from being the chosen one.

“I’m so sorry,” Howie said. “I foolishly assumed since you were so young, you might have been spared. I didn’t know.”

“His name was Elliot.” Joe’s voice cracked. He turned his eyes from Howie’s as if he were embarrassed by his grief. “It’s been close to two years. I should be over it by now, but …”

A breeze tousled the trees. Two mulberries dropped to the deck. A mourning dove chirped. Howie had to be careful to avoid any sort of interrogation that might slam the door to Joe’s heart. “Healing isn’t on a fixed schedule,” he said. “It comes when it comes.”

“I know,” Joe said, turning back. “But at some point you have to get the fuck over it, right?”

“Sometimes that’s true. But is forcing yourself to forget working? For me, mending a broken heart requires going on all sorts of emotional detours—ruminating on what might have been, hoping for the impossible, and lots of raging and crying, crying and raging. Stopping the process too early can, well, prolong the suffering or even leave thick scars on our souls that affect all our future relationships. Or that’s the way I look at it, anyway.”

Joe appeared even more lost than before. Howie worried that he had said too much. But then Joe looked straight into Howie’s eyes in a way he had never done before.

“I’m just so lonely,” he said. “Elliot was the only guy I ever dated. I mean … other than one-night stands and all. I never was able to love anyone else, before or since. Ronnie says I’m emotionally stuck. He says I need to get out there and date other guys—just let myself have some fun.”

“That’s definitely part of the process,” Howie agreed. “I’m a great believer in taking action at the source of one’s despair. But only when you’re ready. If you stay open, the Great Goddess Mother will reveal pathways to healing. But in the meantime, go easy on yourself.”

“Yeah, Ronnie says the same thing—but without the Goddess Mother stuff.” A brief smile before the muddled expression returned. “I’ve been trying to stay open and hook up, but something always gets in the way. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I wasn’t talking about hooking up,” Howie said, smiling. “I’m talking about sharing about it with people who understand. Like a support group or … maybe, if you’d like, you could check out an ACT UP meeting with Dory and me sometime. There’s not a person in that room who hasn’t had their hearts ripped open by this disease one way or another.”

“Maybe. I dunno,” Joe said. “It sucked not being able to talk about it when Elliot got sick. I guess we were both afraid how people would react.”

“But you have to talk about it—scream about it. ‘Silence equals death,’ as they say.” Howie’s heart thrummed excitedly. “I have a brilliant idea. Why don’t you volunteer to bartend at the ACT UP benefit? We’re having a meeting later this afternoon at Dory’s house. Join us?”

Joe shrugged and put the blue flier down on the picnic table. His aura began to flicker like a broken neon sign proclaiming blockage and heartbreak. He was hiding so much more inside about Elliot’s death. It didn’t take any superpower of prescience to see that. But what?

“I can’t,” Joe said. “Ronnie and I are going to a housewarming party on Ocean Walk. He’s been dating this rich guy who built some fancy new beach house. Folks are calling it the Taj Ma Homo.”

“I’ve heard,” Howie said, half-heartedly. “Everybody’s been talking about it. I didn’t know Ronnie was seeing someone new. What happened to Vince?”

“It was just a fuck-buddy thing—according to Ronnie anyway. He’s been hot-and-heavy with the new guy for weeks. Says it’s his affirmations paying off.” Joe rolled his eyes. “His name is Trey something. Know him?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Howie said.

For a moment it looked like Joe wanted to say something else, but then he stopped himself, just like all the other times. If he doesn’t share whatever he’s hiding, it will eventually consume him, Howie thought. Holding things in can make anyone prey to the Great Darkness, whether they are the chosen one or not.

“What?” Joe said. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“No reason,” Howie said. “It’s just, did something happen on Memorial Day weekend?”

Joe’s eyebrows bunched suspiciously. “Why’d you ask that?”

“You’ve seemed out of sorts ever since.”

“Nothing happened,” Joe insisted a little too forcefully. “I’ve just been bored. Ronnie’s off dating Trey, which has also put Vince in a bad mood. Elena’s been all wrapped up with AA and that girl Cleigh from the grocery store. I’ve been trying to meet guys out here, but no one I like seems interested.”

“I doubt that, with the way men talk about you on this island. You’re very attractive, Joe.”

“No, I’m not,” Joe said. “The only people who hit on me are old men or guys who just want to say they fucked the bartender—you know how it is out here. The only time I came close to hooking up was after I got obliterated on those damned Knockout punches. It was with that asshole Fergal of all godforsaken people.”

“You and Fergal the ferryman almost hooked up?” Howie’s belly gurgled with glee at the idea. “Impressive. He’s very picky as well as adorable. I was starting to worry we had jumped the gun on our estimation of his shifting sexual proclivities.”

“You didn’t jump the gun. He’s definitely into dudes. But it doesn’t matter. I screwed it up big time.”

“Hmm,” Howie said, mostly to himself. “So, Fergal is the reason you’ve been in such a state the past few weeks?”

“No, I’m not in a state about Fergal,” Joe snapped. “Fuck that guy. I’m in a state about this bullshit island. It’s not the right place for me. Also, working out here doesn’t make it easy to date or even have fun. I don’t get out until five in the morning, and none of the stuck-up renters have any interest in dating a bartender.

Howie shook his head as he put the watering can down and proceeded to pull out any dead leaves from between the impatiens blossoms. “Let me tell you something, Joseph. If you’re not connecting with other young men, it’s not because you’re a bartender. Like I said, you may just not be ready. No one can predict when the Great Goddess Mother will bestow either sex or love on us. She has her reasons.”

Joe huffed a big exasperated breath. “Who exactly is the Great Goddess Mother, anyway?”

Howie smiled at the sight of Joe’s sweet, frustrated eyebrows. He wished he could tell him everything, but it still wasn’t time. “That’s just the name we use for our favorite deity—like the good that’s in most people. It really doesn’t matter. My point is, it’s best not to aim too hard for love or you’ll miss it. It’s not a fixed target, after all. Your job is to heal, then just wait and see what the universe puts in your path—love and sex will come. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I guess the Great Goddess Mother loves Ronnie more,” Joe said sarcastically. “He sure hasn’t had any problems hooking up.”

“Well, Ronnie’s got confidence, and despite whatever hardship he’s suffered in his life, there is something fearless about him. That’s why he’s having more experiences. To be quite honest, in many ways—and don’t tell Ronnie I said this—you’re far more attractive.”

“Oh, come on.” A sudden vulnerability flushed Joe’s cheeks. “If I’m so great, then why did Fergal practically run away from me?”

“Well, what happened exactly?”

“We made out and it was really, really hot, and I suggested we, ya know, take it a little further. But then I said something totally stupid, and I apologized and all, but he got this disgusted look on his face and left, like I was dirt or something. Wouldn’t even let me explain.”

“Hmm,” Howie said. “I’ve known Fergal most of his life. He’s not the type who would just walk away for no reason. Unfortunately, when people like him feel strongly for someone, it can be overwhelming.”

“Trust me,” Joe snorted. “The only feeling he was having for me was repulsion.”

Howie smiled. “There’s also the possibility he knew you weren’t ready.”

“I don’t think someone could be as ready as me.” Joe sighed, looking up into the mulberry tree. Its leaves painted lace shadows across his face. “You know what I really hate about AIDS? I mean, besides it killing people?” He looked back at Howie. “It makes love almost impossible.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” Howie said. “Quite the opposite. I think the crisis has shown us what loving really is.” Joe looked ready to speak, and Howie’s hopes rose, but once again Joe appeared to silence himself. Finally fed up, Howie exploded. “Stop that, Joseph! The Gnostic Gospels say, ‘Bring forth what is within you and it will save you. If you do not bring it forth it will destroy you.’ So, enough with your avoiding me—tell me what’s going on!”

“Fine,” Joe said, meeting Howie’s level of frustration. “You want me to bring it forth ? How do I fall in love again when they say fifty percent of gay men out here are probably infected with HIV? If I fall in love with a positive guy again, then I’m back to where I was with Elliot—always worrying about losing him or getting infected myself. And if I fall in love with someone HIV negative, then I’d worry I was just loving him because he’s negative; or, more likely, I’ll feel guilty as hell that I’m having a life when Elliot had to die.” Howie reached for Joe, but Joe stepped back as if the touch might turn off the spigot gushing from his soul. “Then there’s my other dirty little secret,” he continued, his voice clawing through the ache. “Maybe I was only able to love Elliot because he was dying. Maybe I need a giant exit sign in any relationship because I’m actually incapable of real love.” Joe pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck! I just want my head to be quiet!”

“It’s all right, Joe,” Howie whispered, longing to hug the boy. “I understand.”

Joe pulled his hands from his face and looked directly into Howie’s eyes. “Can I ask you something? Even if it upsets you?”

“Sure. I’m an open-ish book.” A whirlpool of nerves swooped through Howie’s digestive tract.

“That day I injured my leg? I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I went into your room.”

“We know,” Howie said. “The blood spatter was like a subway map.”

“Well …” Joe hesitated. “There’s that big photo of Max dressed in drag on your wall—her ominous something?”

“Yes. Eartha Delights and Her Ominous Bush. It’s Max’s alter ego—his elevated spiritual, drag-queen self. When he dresses up as her, he believes he has special powers.” Howie swallowed hard, not yet wanting to reveal that he too had “special powers”—or at least used to . “Why are you asking?”

“Max is important to you, isn’t he?” Joe widened his eyes at Howie. “I mean, really important?”

Howie pulled his robe around himself, as if he felt a draft. What exactly was Joe trying to get at? How much had he seen in the house? Was this the reason for Joe’s distance these past weeks? If their friendship was to progress, perhaps it was time to have the discussion. “What do you want to know, Joe?”

Joe bit his lip. “That photo of Eartha Delights … when I looked in her eyes. It was like she made me so angry and sad and … I heard things. Voices and music and …” Joe took a deep breath, seemingly unable to articulate more but clearly wanting an answer.

What had Joe experienced? Was it possible Max, even in his delirium, had been able to connect with Joe via some sort of telepathy? It made no sense, since Joe wasn’t in the coven. Still, Howie would need to check with Max (as soon as he was well enough) to see if he had experienced anything unusual that day. But for now, Howie would need to be very careful in his explanation so as not to scare Joe. As much as he hated doing it. Howie would need to lie.

“What you experienced is totally understandable,” Howie began gently. “You’ve been through such a great tragedy at far too young an age. Plus, you’ve been uprooted and flung onto this incredibly insane and intense gay island. Now take all of that and combine it with the adrenaline from, well, knowingly sneaking into our private space. That’s like a hurricane in your head. It’s natural you’d think you heard voices when you looked at Max’s future reliquary. We created it so it would evoke profound feelings, and you’re a very empathetic young man, Joe. I’d be more troubled if you didn’t hear voices and music. Frankly, that photo of Eartha inspires so many people to experience outrageous things. You should see how many of my tricks look up at her in the middle of the night and run screaming from my room.” Howie chuckled. “At least that’s what they tell me is the reason.” He placed his hand warmly on Joe’s shoulder. “You didn’t see or hear ghosts, Joe, and you’re not going crazy.”

Joe sniffled. “Thanks. By the way, that photo and frame are beautiful … what did you call it?”

“It’s a reliquary,” Howie said. “A place where we’ll keep Max’s ashes when he’s gone. He and I have been working on it ever since he found out he had AIDS. He wanted to be part of creating it, leaving those he loved something to visit and celebrate his glorious life.”

“I notice how you look at him in some of the photos,” Joe said. “Did you used to date?”

“A long time ago,” Howie said, relieved that Joe seemed to buy his explanation. “Though not in the usual hetero-Hollywood misrepresentation of love. The physical part of our love was brief, but we love each other in a much more expansive way. We’ve both had lots of other lovers since, of course. He and Heshy have been together for nearly twenty years. And Lenny and I are … well … whatever we are. But Max remains the most important person in my life—in all our lives, really. He was the linchpin in our entire friend group when everyone was still alive. He’s the one who brought us all together and called us ‘an army of lovers’—battling to spread joy and love on every dance floor. That was back in the sixties in P-town. Later, Lenny and I followed him here to 44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff. He taught us everything that made our lives most valuable. Of course, there were many more of us back in the day—all collected from dance floors or one-night stands.” Howie smiled, thinking of the coven at its most populated and fertile. But then he remembered, and darkness filled his eyes. “Over the last eight years, AIDS has taken eighty-two of us.”

“Lenny mentioned that,” Joe said, his eyes softening as he looked down. “I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry.”

Howie nodded. “Max’s army of lovers has dwindled to just five. If he dies …” Howie felt his tear ducts itch. He squeezed his eyes shut so he could finish his sentence. “So much of what gave my life meaning will be gone. I am who I am because of him.” Howie could no longer hold it in. He placed the watering can down and clasped his hand across his face.

A moment later he felt Joe’s arms around him, hugging him long and hard. “I get it now,” Joe said. “I’m really sorry about Max. And I’m sorry I went into your room. I shouldn’t have, and it won’t happen again.”

“It’s all right, Joe. That’s how we become better friends. We fail, we forgive. There is no real friendship without failure. Are we okay now?”

“Definitely.” Joe released the hug and picked up the blue flier from the table. “Count me in to bartend at the ACT UP benefit. I’ll be happy to donate my tips too.”

“Wonderful,” Howie said, wiping his nose with the hem of his robe. “I’m sure Dory will very much appreciate it.”

For a split second it appeared like Joe might have had something more he wanted to say, but then he folded up the flier and put it in his back pocket. “I gotta go get ready for this party. Later, Howie. Thanks for the talk.” And he was gone.

“Finally,” Howie whispered to himself. Joe was opening up. But still, all the joy that had previously filled Howie’s gut had vanished, and so had all the show tune–singing mourning doves. He stood alone on the back deck. The only sound he heard was the whispering of the mulberry tree, and then, as if it had been waiting for his attention, one long, foreboding hoot of a great horned owl—the same one he had heard haunting the Meat Rack earlier in the season. An omen of death had returned.