Kings of bmore, p.24
Kings of B'more, page 24
Harrison nodded. Obed dialed his phone and stepped away. He and Linus’s dad spoke for all of thirty seconds, at most. He imagined trying to have that brief a conversation with Linus. Couldn’t be done.
“Okay, man,” Harrison’s dad said into the phone, drifting back. “I got you . . . All right . . . You know it. All right . . . Love you, brother . . . Be well.” He hung up. Harrison had no idea why his dad always said goodbye in twelve different ways on the phone. A peculiar marvel. “Crisis averted.”
“Thank you!”
“Now, please go home. Cuz that’s where I told Wally you’d be.”
“We are! That’s where we’re going,” Harrison said.
“All right, sounds good,” Obed said.
“See you later,” Harrison said.
“Be safe getting home,” Obed said.
“Will do,” Harrison said.
“All right,” Obed said.
“Okay,” Harrison said.
“Love you, boy-o,” Obed said.
“Love you, too,” Harrison said.
“All right.”
“Bye, now.”
* * *
The group, now six with the addition of Aparna, moved like one large mass of brown appendages and shirtsleeves and still-wet trunks and one flagging sort-of towel as they walked across the bridge from the park, making introductions, making conversation, and making a new plan.
“Are we all coming to your house?” ask Phil. “I need to get this straight because I’m hearing one thing from some people and other things from other people, and it’s very confusing.”
“How are you hearing multiple things?” Harrison said. “We’re all talking to each other.”
“I’ve heard some rumors,” Fab said.
“There’s a lot of conversation,” said Mazz.
“So?” said Phil.
At the same time that Harrison said “Yes,” Linus said “No.” Phil threw up her hands in frustration. They crossed the street and through a busy intersection that led to the highway and beyond that the hill where Mazz and Linus had sat. With each passing block, the houses seemed to grow taller and more statuesque, going from homey squat builds with porches to narrow row homes and then to streets populated by tall old three-story mansions, most of which were now divided into apartments.
“What do you mean ‘yes’?’ ” Linus asked.
“I mean, why not?” Harrison said. “We can just hang out in the backyard if we want.”
“Uh, did you run this by your parents?”
“It’s my house, too!” Harrison declared.
“I don’t think we need to do all this.”
“What if I want people to come over?” Harrison said. He was buzzing like he’d had a soda. “I think it will be fun. A little send-off.”
Linus’s voice got low. “Doesn’t feel little,” he said. “Feels like doing a lot.”
Harrison looked at him seriously. “It’s not too much. I promise you.”
They crossed the street again, heading south. The block was lined with trees, most of which were as tall as the old mansions. It was cooler, calmer, quieter here, even though they were within walking distance of Pride and a little bit to the west of Linus’s house. It was truly like the neighborhoods were encased in their own protective shells. How to get out, how to get in? They walked on. Here and there, a restaurant or a church broke up the line of looming brown buildings. People sat outside on steps or at café tables, arms, legs, knees, feet catching the sun. Harrison moved out in front of their group, walking fast.
“What are you doing?” Linus asked.
“The same thing I’ve been doing all day,” Harrison said. “Ferris Day.” He turned to the his friends and called out, “If anybody sees a Ferris wheel, let me know. It’s important.”
“Now you’re doing too much,” Linus said.
“Now I’m okay with that.”
They crossed the street again onto another block with similar architecture. It made sense that this was where the rich people used to live, north of North Avenue, east of the park, close to everything. Harrison didn’t understand why anyone would want to be far away.
“Who could hate this city?” he declared to no one in particular.
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” said Phil.
Up ahead was a row home with huge swaths of fabric hanging down from the roof. The building was made up of two three-story mansions combined, with the door moved to the center. It was as tall as it was wide, a perfect square. The fabric was stretched tight, extending from the roof over a small cement yard and tied at a point along a black metal fence. As they got closer, they saw that the fabric made a rainbow, with one swath in each color—black, brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. It had the effect of making the building’s yard seem like it was under a circus big top. The railings of the stone stairs leading to the double front doors had fabric in the colors of the trans flag looped through the bars on one side and magenta, yellow, and light blue fabric on the other.
“Looks like these people take Pride very seriously,” Aparna said.
“What is the magenta, yellow, and blue flag for again?” Harrison asked.
“Pansexual Pride,” Fab answered.
They approached the gate and took in the house behind the makeshift Pride tent. There was a checkerboard of windows across the face of the building, all frosted over in white with silhouettes of pine trees. The silhouettes looked like sketches, hasty and jagged and whimsical. Though the sun was still out, they could see the faint hint of colored lights moving behind windows on different floors. There was music coming from inside, a piano playing, and from up on the roof, the faint sounds of dance songs floating down like the smell of home cooking coming from a kitchen. It seemed alive and of another place. Harrison had never seen a house do drag before, but he thought that this house would get tens across the board. This house wasn’t just a pretty face. This house had a rich interior life. In here, as the emcee in Cabaret says, life is beautiful. Harrison wished he could see that show again. Cool Aparna had been an amazing Sally Bowles.
Harrison stepped into the yard. Linus pulled his arm back.
Linus looked him in the eye. We’re supposed to be going home.
We’re supposed to be having an adventure, Harrison replied. He waggled his eyebrows in the way that Linus had done to him a million times. This is a home.
He ducked under the black fabric and walked to the base of the stairs. There were two doors, both glass, at the top. Each pane had the silhouette of a woman in a hoop skirt leaning in toward the middle like they were about to kiss.
“Should I knock?” Harrison asked.
“For what reason?” Linus replied.
Fab wandered down the block and disappeared around the side of the house.
“Do you think it’s someone’s house?” Mazz said.
“It’s a lounge,” said Aparna, looking at her phone. “It’s called the Evergreens.”
“This is the Evergreens?!” Harrison cried.
“You’ve heard of it?” Aparna asked.
“I’ve more than heard of it. I’ve been invited.” He spoke directly to Linus then. “It’s a sign!”
Linus turned to Mazz. “At Pride, we met this guy Fitzhugh Quatch—”
“You met a Quatch?!” Phil screamed, the most enthused Harrison had seen her all afternoon.
“No relation,” said Harrison.
“Oh.” Phil was crushed.
Linus continued, “He and his sister and his friends were coming here for a Pride party, and he told us we have to come. It was at some weird time. But he told us we have to come and here we are. So . . .”
“So?” Harrison said out loud, but giving his eyebrows a workout.
“I think it might be a sign,” Mazz said.
“Did he say how to get in?” Aparna asked.
“He tried to give me his number.” Linus offered unhelpfully.
“Did you take his number?” Aparna asked.
“No, Linus was being mad about not having his phone,” Harrison said. “I’m just going to knock.” He had not, however, moved any closer to the door.
“Wait. Who do you think is going to open the door?” Mazz asked.
“I guess the butler?”
“Just what are we supposed to do in some place that has a butler?” Aparna said.
“I don’t know! Should I not do this?” Harrison said.
“Well . . .” said Linus. “They did invite us.”
“Turning down the Quatches is social death,” Phil said.
“It’s not the Quatches,” said Harrison.
Phil held her hands up. “I’m blocking that out. I can’t deal with it.”
Mazz piped up. “I think, whatever is going on inside, if we don’t see it now, it’s going to drive us nuts. Some things demand to be seen. That’s the whole idea with Pride, right? Plus, it is Ferris Day after all.”
Phil held up a finger. “I hate to interject, but I have to admit I’m a little confused about what Ferris Day is. I never really got clarity around what you’re doing.”
“We’re doing anything we want. Together,” Linus said, smiling.
“I’m going to knock on this door now, then,” said Harrison, his bravado only slightly flagging.
Fab peeked her head around the corner. “Hey, folks, the entrance is actually around here. There’s a line. So.”
4:50 p.m.
They stood in front of a large wooden barn door that had been cut into the side of the building; it had the words open me carefully painted on it in white cursive. Linus imagined this was more than a simple safety precaution, but rather a message from the house to the world. He imagined that whatever was behind the door was somehow both more and less real than he was experiencing, like the vivid stilt houses that Mazz predicted awaited him down south. He imagined that to go in unawares would trip him up. He imagined that if the door was flung open, whatever magic that was alive inside would rush out into the streets and transform the world.
What then? Would he also be transformed? Would it be too much?
If it was, he decided, at least he knew what he wanted on his fancy gravestone at Baltimore Cemetery. He wanted a big pristine rock that read open me carefully.
* * *
The woman who was standing at the door, listening to Harrison chatter as Linus daydreamed, did not appear interested in opening the door, carefully or otherwise. Nevertheless, Harrison was lobbying her, displaying none of the usual awkwardness that both of them always felt around adults.
“Um, so I guess what I’m asking is,” Harrison was saying, “is Fitzhugh Quatch on the list? We’re with him.”
“No,” the woman at the door replied.
“Okay, because he told us to come here.”
“For what?” she said. What did she mean, for what? For whatever was happening behind that door that she’d just let six people into. Perhaps, madam, you can hear the piano playing “Home” from The Wiz behind you, so if we could hurry this part up, that would be great. Harrison desperately needed to get there (wherever there was) before that roof-raising final note. It was his duty as a Black person and also someone who had a calling, and a cultural legacy, and a special Tony for Anxiety.
He tried to answer her riddles. “It was . . . well, it was a party. But it had a weird name.”
“Yeah, it was a kind of drink and then a name for a party,” Linus said.
Oh, hello, Linus; welcome to the door, thought Harrison. Thanks for joining. “You remember all that but you don’t remember the name?” he said out loud.
“Do you?” Linus countered.
“Okay, fair.” Harrison said.
Aparna had her phone out and was googling. “A drink and a word for ‘party’?”
“Coffee klatch!” cried Phil.
“Soda shindig,” said Mazz.
“Water blast,” said Fab.
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is tea party?” Aparna said.
Harrison shook his head. “No.”
“But that is actually what you are describing. It is a drink and the name of a party. Tea party.”
Harrison looked at her and gasped. “No! But! Wait . . . Dance! Tea dance! We’re here for the tea dance.”
“Okay,” said the woman at the door. She had a ring on every finger. They clinked as she adjusted her hand on the door handle.
“So can we come in?” Harrison said. Is this how adult parties worked? You called it something ridiculous and if people could remember the name, a woman with teased hair and truly amazing floral-print boots would let them in? Who was this for? Also, was there a book he could study, because if this is how things operated, he had major concerns about his future social life. As usual.
The guard had questions, too. “Who invited you?”
“Fitzhugh! We told you!”
She pulled out a small black notebook. “He’s not on the list.”
“Triple Belk?”
“Sorry.”
“Do you have someone named Triple Belk’s boyfriend on there?”
“Why would I write that many words?” It was a good point. The notebook was miniscule.
“Isobel Quatch?” Linus said.
“ISOBEL! Why didn’t you say so?! Oh my god, Isobel. Of course!”
* * *
The door rumbled shut behind them, and they were plunged into the darkness of a long vestibule. Neon lights in pink and blue and green sweat across their faces and arms. Each member of the group privately wondered what they’d gotten themselves into. They’d all seen the cartoon Pinocchio as kids. And also the news. You didn’t just roll up into strange houses just because they had a Pride flag on the outside. And now what were they supposed to do? Push open the door in front of them? Continue walking? Go to the dance? Suspicious! No one spoke. The music crept in to fill the space. The barn door opened again, and a couple almost stumbled over the group as they crowded into the vestibule.
“This ain’t the party!” the doorwoman called.
Carefully, they pushed open the door.
As Harrison stepped out of the vestibule and into the party, his skin, his Bayard Rustin shirt, and his trunks were all covered by geometric shapes in blue and red and yellow and white. Light. He looked up. He discovered that he was standing in the hollow of a great swirling staircase, rising up three tall levels, a flurry of right angles made of mahogany. And at the very top, in the center, sending lit triangles and squares raining down on them, was a giant rectangular stained-glass window. It glowed. It lit up the whole floor around them like they were all inside a gem.
Harrison turned to Linus and saw a version of himself. Linus’s white bowling shirt was a pageant of light; the black birds stitched on the sides now flew off to a jeweled paradise. The light pushed in through the fabric, too, illuminating Linus’s undershirt and neck in the same way that his arms and face were. It was like light wanted to take a physical form. They were vibrant new creatures standing in the middle of radiance itself.
And around them, other vibrant beings were suffused with light, lingering in doorways, coming and going. People moving up and down the stairs, glowing like sunrise and sunset. Folks in summer-casual and party dress gathered here by the bannister, there flirting against the ornate wallpaper of a hallway, or laughing behind a wooden column, just an arm and a flash of teeth visible. Posing for no one and for everyone, a hand hitched up the side. Careening through the entryway at odd angles, heels clacking, a glass dangling precariously from their hands. Peering down from the staircase like celestial hosts.
Harrison felt like they’d stepped back in time. No, not back, beside time. The inside of the Evergreens looked like it had been restored to the stately grandeur of its original 1800s form—all wood and brass and white light pouring in from huge square windows across velvet furniture. But that grandeur had been animated at some point by an energy that Harrison could only describe as queer. Harrison had never before described anything, particularly a physical space, as queer, but it was the word that came to mind. And as he judged his thought, he decided that perhaps the three-story inclusive rainbow on the outside might have been a clue. But there was something else, something molecular about it. There was a humor to everything; he would have thought a mansion with gleaming wood floors and a soaring stained-glass window and huge archways leading to bright rooms would be stuffy. But where there might have been a domineering portrait of some ancient general in the imposing entryway, there was instead a huge photograph of a Black woman with a low ’fro standing in front of a blackboard with women are powerful and dangerous written on it. He broke off from the group to look closer. A sign said it was the poet Audre Lorde. Underneath, a turntable aimlessly spun a tray of succulents. The group moved deeper into the house and turned as one body through a doorway and found a great room, brightly lit and lined with books. Between the shelves there were framed signs from years of gay-rights protests. Above a doorway, there was a quote spray-painted on top of the wallpaper that read we need, in every community, a group of angelic troublemakers. And underneath the quote was the attribution: bayard rustin. Harrison instinctively pressed his hand to his chest. He got the sense that this place had an infinite number of bustling rooms like this. Full of life. Full of the thing that he, again, could only describe as queer. It was . . . what was it? The sound, the tenor, the tone; the fixtures, the decor, the knickknacks secreted on a shelf that nobody would even see; the energy, the vibrance, the comfort. Yes, that was it, too. It was comfortable. It had a busy comfort that he’d felt at Maybe This Time and also—he found this fascinating—at the museum. The hatpin in the display case. The elevator that time traveled. The paradox of liberty. All of time, a certain kind of time, lived here.
