From Chapter One

Capital Queers
An Excerpt from Chapter One

By Fred Hunter

Mason spent the dinner describing in excruciatingly funny detail the pride parade they'd attended in Washington. He related a story of one particular senator whose placement in the parade was temporarily interrupted when he spent a little too long shaking hands with the mincing masses of potential voters along the parade route. When he turned back, expecting to find his limousine, he instead found a float full of drag queens done up to look like Lisa Marie. Mason did a near-perfect (according to Ryan) imitation of the famed senator's plasticized smile melting in horror and confusion as he then lurched quickly up the street like a drunken sailor in pursuit of his limo.

"But the best part about our nation's capital is that I managed to find the perfect addition to my collection!" Mason said.

Oh Lord, here is comes, I thought.

Mason pushed back his chair and said, "Alex, you'll absolutely love her. She's another one of my Traviata girls!"

I got up to follow him as Ryan said, "I'll clear, honey," to which Peter added, "I'll help." I would have been proud of my husband's undying courtesy if I hadn't been so sure that he was doing it to avoid the same fate as mine.

I tossed a helpless look over my shoulder toward my helpmate as I followed Mason down the creaking hardwood floor to their guest room, where his collection was housed. Mason threw the door open with a tired flourish and switched on the floor lamp. It instantly threw into rather ghostly illumination the several shelves full of dolls that lined his walls. I have to admit that his collection, which includes over three dozen various and obviously expensive dolls, is very impressive. But I'd seen them before, and the way Mason doted on them set my teeth on edge.

"As you know," he said, adopting his fey museum-director persona, "the Barbie portion of our program is one of my pride and joys."

Mason pointed to one after the other. "The Wedding Day Barbie, Dream Date Barbie, Star Dream Barbie, Black Barbie -- from the all-dolls-are-created-equal period of doll making -- my holiday Barbie in red.... Doesn't she look just like a blood-soaked snowflake? And of course, my favorite: spuj Barbie." He plucked from the shelf a doll with the same vacuous, perky expression as the others, but she was dressed like a valley girl trapped in a kitchen-sink drama. Mason straightened her dress and set her back in her stand.

"Of course, you know all the others," he said, waving his hands at the dozens of dolls as he continued toward the opposite end of the shelves. "Trulamae, Dolly Madison, all the girls!" I was relieved that it appeared he wouldn't be doting over the whole collection this evening, because once you get him started, it's hard to stop him.

"This is our new addition," he said, gently lifting form the shelf the most astoundingly lifelike doll I'd ever seen: She was wearing a deep red, velvet gown with a matching hat, and had a lace kerchief pinned at her neck. But it was the head that was so striking: The hair was swept back in a way that made it look quite natural, and the eyes and face were so perfectly executed that they were unnervingly lifelike.

"She's beautiful," I said. I made the noises of admiration which were expected of me, but it was all I could do not to shudder. I just knew I'd be seeing this alarming little woman in my nightmares, but in them she'd be wielding a teeny-weeny razor blade.

"I got her in a fancy doll shop in Georgetown."

He fussed with the doll's dress for a moment, straightening it and smooth it with his fingers, then he swept her hair back gently, as if to brush it out of her eyes.

"You know," he said absently, "there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

I continued to watch him as he picked a stray piece of lint from the back of the doll's dress, then carefully placed her back in her stand.

"Alex?"

"I'm sorry," I said, turning red, "I thought you were talking to the doll."

Mason turned his narrow face toward mine and pursed his lips, the corners of his mouth just barely rising.

"I don't hold conversations with them," he said.

"I know that," I protested, though in truth, it wouldn't have surprised me.

"Well," he said slowly, casting a sad look at the dolls, "if anything should ever happen to me, I want you to have my girls."

I blinked and my mouth dropped open just a little before I could stop it. Ironically enough, after telling Peter how uncomfortable I felt with Mason's avoidance of the subject of his health, I was really unprepared for this direct assault.

"You what?"

"You've always appreciate them.... At least, you've always been willing to come and look at them with me. I want you to have them."

"Mason, that's really.... nice.... but I don't think you should talk like this. You look great. You'll be with us for years."

He let out an abbreviated snort and said, "Let's face it, sweety, I'm fading fast. I may have a while, I may not. I don't dwell on it. But I'm not an idiot."

"Wouldn't you rather leave them to Ryan? After all.... "

"Oh, my butch husband!" Mason replied with a grin, "He's so sweet. But you know, he just tolerates them. I mean, he may admire them in some way, but not the way you do. If I collected baseball cards I wouldn't hesitate to leave them to him."

"He might surprise you."

"No, no," Mason said, still smiling. He moved to the middle of the shelves, spread out his arms toward the dolls, and said in an imitation of Maggie Smith in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, "These are all my girls, and I love them. I want you to have them when I'm gone. You're the only one who'll keep them for me, and take care of them the way they should be. Someday.... someday Ryan may meet someone else...and maybe he won't want to have any reminders of his old love around.... "

"You know that's not true," I said.

He smiled at me indulgently, letting me know that I was interrupting his performance. ".... and he'll be forced to get rid of my girls somehow." Mason turned to me with the most knowing, twisted smile I've ever seen on his face. "You, on the other hand, would be under no such constraints. Giving them to you would insure their safety. Knowing how much they meant to me, you would never.... ever.... get rid of them."

I narrowed my eyes at him, and couldn't help giving him a little smile of admiration. Apparently he'd always known that my interest in his collection amounted to little more than indulging him. Mason was not incapable of irony, even when it came to his own end. He'd hit on the perfect plan for getting back at me. What he said was true: The dolls would live forever in my care because I'd be too goddamn sentimental to get rid of them at any price, knowing how much they'd meant to him.

He wasn't willing me the dolls, he was cursing me with the damn things! And from the look on his face, he was enjoying himself.

"But you wanted him to talk about it," said Peter as we walked home.

"But I didn't want him to talk about leaving me those demonic little icons," I replied.

Peter couldn't help but laugh at this. "Mason always did know how to go straight for the gut."

"But you know, I wasn't kidding when I told him I thought Ryan would want them."

His smile faded a little. "I know, and I think you're right."

We walked on in silence for a couple of minutes, then I said, "So tell me, honey, if I died, would you be sentimental about my things?"

The left corner of his mouth slip upward, giving his profile a sly cast. "I promise that if I ever lose you I'll have your Mold-a-Rama souvenir likeness of Mt. Rushmore put on a chain which I'll wear around my neck for the rest of my days."

"Jerk," I said, giving his shoulder a playful slap. "That souvenir will come back to haunt you."

"It already does."