Page 28 of Exquisite Things

“So you did.” She eyes me up and down. “Boy, have you changed your clothes or washed up since I last saw you?”

Lily is interrupted by a man before I can answer. “There you are!” He’s Tom of Finland handsome. Like something out of a physique

pictorial. Chiseled face. Body like a Michelangelo statue. “I need to introduce you to someone.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “Archie, if this is another doomed attempt at matchmaking—”

“Career matchmaking.” Archie pulls Lily close. “A film producer. You could do costumes for his next film.”

“What’s the movie?”

Archie laughs. “Darling, I didn’t get that far. But he’s gorgeous and I’d gladly offer myself up to him if he promises to

hire you.”

“Archie!” Lily wags a finger at him.

Archie cackles. “What? I’d do it anyway. May as well get something for it.”

“First, introductions.” Lily puts her arm around me. “This is the boy I told you about.” It pleases me to know she’s told

her friend about me.

Archie introduces himself. Tells me that Lily was thrilled that her menswear pieces were finally being put to use.

I turn to Archie. “How come you never wore them?”

Archie laughs. “She refuses to design for me. She hates my body.”

Lily slaps his shoulder playfully. “I just think you work too hard to conform to some masculine ideal, at the expense of your

own joy.”

“ You bring me joy, darling friend.”

“I can’t go out to dinner with you anymore.” She turns to me now. “This man thinks raw celery and boiled chicken is a meal.”

Archie defends himself. “I have to watch my calories—”

“You already don’t drink. Half the calories in the British diet come from the pubs. I’m telling you, the human psyche needs

flavor .”

Archie laughs. “The boys like me ripped, I like the boys to like me, and trust me, I enjoy boys of every flavor.”

“That’ll be enough of that now.” Lily puts a protective arm around me. “We have a young innocent in our midst.”

“As if I wasn’t thinking far worse at his age.

” Archie rolls his eyes. “All my teenage thoughts were of boys. I never dreamed I would live in a world where I could be with one. Besides, I’ve had this body since I was a teenager.

I blame the boarding school crew team for my unhealthy obsession with looking healthy.

” I gaze at Archie curiously. He must come from wealth and privilege.

I wonder if his posh parents know where he is.

Is he still a son to them? “Now let’s go see if we can’t get you a better job. ”

Lily follows Archie to the back of the club. I gaze over at George and Marilyn. They giggle about something or other. George

looks at me. “Go have some fun, kid. What are you standing with us for?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, Rusty won’t play Petula Clark forever.” Marilyn laughs.

George talks as he checks a man’s ruffled coat. “The beauty of Rusty is he’ll play Bowie, Kraftwerk, Roxy Music, but then

he’ll throw in something so unexpected, so square, that you can’t help but reassess it.”

I stroll over to the small dance floor. Throngs of assembled freaks sing along with Petula.

Don’t sleep in the subway, darling. I join the sing-along.

Don’t stand in the pouring rain , we sing.

We raise our arms up. We belt the words.

We’re proud of sleeping in subways. In squats. Wherever we might find

a place to rest before another night of dancing. All these queers. Claiming a piece of the city as our own. We’ll sleep where

we want. Be whoever we want. Look however we want. It’s a powerful feeling. Dancing and singing alongside people who have

suffered the same rejections.

The song ends. A new one begins. Roxy Music.

“The Thrill of It All.” Lily and Archie dance in a corner.

Archie spins her. I can see the details of Lily’s dress in the light.

Multicolored patchwork. Dazzling. The dress is so long that you can barely see her heels.

The sleeves even longer. Her lips are a rust color.

Her lashes glitter in the light. Like she’s layered them in diamond dust. Archie wears nothing but a leather vest and tight denim shorts.

A hint of jockstrap. A burst of friendship as they laugh.

I wish Oliver were here. Every smile here is beautiful. But none are his. The song feels like it’s about us. Everywhere I look. I see your face. Perhaps every song is about us. Every word ever written about us. Though you’ve gone. Still I recall. The thrill of it all.

Lily drags Archie to my side. “So what do you think of the Blitz, kid?” She fixes my hair as she asks the question.

“It’s incredible. Like what utopia might look like.”

She laughs. “I don’t know about that, kid. Needs more melanin. Lots of colorful clothes. Not enough colorful faces.”

Archie nods in agreement. “Also strange that it’s named after that wretched bombed-out period when people supposedly came

together as one.”

Lily quickly jumps in. “Which of course they didn’t.”

“I said supposedly . I know true unity is a myth.”

Lily sighs. “A beautiful myth, perhaps even a necessary one.”

Would Oliver agree? Does he believe humans can ever come together as one?

From his booth, the DJ announces a band is about to play. “They played their first gig over a month ago right here at the

Blitz. Give it up for Spandau Ballet!”

Five costumed men take the stage. They wear jumpsuits.

Skirts. Plaid. Ruffles. They begin to play jangly music that feels both dark and light at the same time.

The lead singer wears an Elizabethan dress.

It brings me back to that night when we all attended the masquerade ball decades ago.

Who was it who wore an Elizabethan dress that Jack stole from the theater closet?

Was it Brendan or Cyril? Some details come back so clearly.

Others fade. The lead singer’s transportive croon seems to exist in a realm beyond time.

His voice feels like the past. His lyrics speak directly to the present.

Oh, look at the strange boy. He finds it hard existing.

To cut a long story short, I lost my mind.

Archie applauds loudly when the band’s set ends. “The music is fantastic, but why must they be called Spandau Ballet? It’s

so depressing.”

I ask Archie what the band name means.

Lily’s the one who explains. “Supposedly, they got the name from something scribbled on a bathroom stall in Berlin. From what

I understand, a Spandau Ballet was a term coined to describe Nazi prisoners jerking about while being hanged at Spandau prison.”

“Well, they were Nazis. But I still don’t love having to think of men being hanged. It’s gruesome. No one should be tortured.” There’s pain

in Archie’s voice as he says this. A raw vulnerability barely hiding beneath his brawny surface.

“The club is called the Blitz. The band is named after Nazis. I guess this country is still reeling from the ghosts of the

world war.” Lily sighs. “Of course, this country also takes all the credit for ending the war. As if we Jamaicans didn’t provide

safe haven for countless Europeans. And the biggest military contingent from the Caribbean.”

“I’m sorry I got us onto politics.” Archie turns to me. “This place should be a refuge from all that.”

Lily takes my hand in hers. “Let’s go for curry. I’m starving and I don’t want to see these queens get sloppy.” It’s then

that I notice that—unlike the majority of the blitzed crowd—neither Lily nor Archie had anything but water to drink.

We go for curry. Followed by ice cream. Archie pays for dinner.

Lily for dessert. It feels like we’re a traditional family.

Mother. Father. Son. Out for a family meal.

We couldn’t look more mismatched as any kind of wholesome ideal.

Lily with her black skin and riotous fashion.

Archie with his bulging muscles and barely there gay uniform.

Me: This strange brown thing that’s been here as long as some of the city’s historic buildings. This ancient thing that still

looks and feels seventeen.

The ice cream disappears. Archie says it’s time for him to get to his date for the evening.

“Do you know this one’s name?” Lily teases him. Gently. Lovingly.

Archie climbs atop a newspaper rack. Orates like he’s onstage. “What’s in a name?” My eyes focus on the headline of the paper

in the vending machine. Three Boys Dead. Hunt for Arsonist Continues. Archie’s joy stands in contrast to the bleak news. “That which we call a rosebud by any other name would taste just as sweet.”

“You are filthy!” Lily says this with love too.

“Filthy and fabulous.” Archie leaps off the stand. Kisses Lily gently on the lips. Pats my head awkwardly.

Lily asks where I’ll be sleeping that night when he’s gone. I say nothing. She puts her arms around me like I’m the stray

cat that I am. “You’ll sleep on the couch.” She raises a finger. A warning. “But just for one night. After that, you’re out.”

Back at her place, she fixes the couch up for me. Uses long swaths of soft fabric for sheets. Wraps a pillow in yellow silk.

“I’ll have you know this is not just any couch. It once belonged to Francis Bacon.”

“Did it really?” I touch the couch softly. Like it’s in a museum.

“Well, that’s what the queen who sold it to Lady Cordelia said, and it’s what we’ve chosen to believe. And if we believe it, then it’s true.” Her eyes turn to me curiously. “What about Francis?”

“Oh, I think he’s a fantastic artist. Don’t you?”

“I meant as your name. I’ve always thought it was a beautiful name. Very soft. Poetic. Like Saint Francis of Assisi, who stood

up for the poor.”

“I don’t know.... It feels too much to live up to. I’m not noble or glorious or anything like that. I’m just a wild thing

that somehow survives—”

“Bramble!” She blurts the word out decisively. A burst of inspiration.

“What?”

“Well, why not?” She pulls a fluffy blanket from a closet. Throws it onto the couch. She’s completed the task of creating

a bed for me. “A bramble is wild and prickly, with sharp thorns that could either hurt you or stun you with their beauty.”

“That does sound like me.” I look at her. “And I like that it feels related to your name. Lily is a flower. Bramble is a vine.

We’re both plants of summer.”

“Hmm.” She nods. I wonder if she likes this connection between our names. Or perhaps regrets it. “I’ll say good night now.

In the morning, you’ll need to start telling me what your plans are for making money and finding a place of your own. There’s

gay squats up and down Brixton now. You can start there. I don’t want you sleeping on the street.”

“Yes, Mommy.” I say the word sarcastically.

“I’m being serious. Gay boys like you are disappearing off the streets. No one knows why. No one cares why.”

“You do.”

She nods. “Yes, I do.” She approaches me menacingly. “And next time you call me Mommie, you will add the word Dearest , you hear. Mommie Dearest.”

“Um... Okay...” I feel like I’ve let her down somehow.

She cackles. Tousles my hair. “It’s from the book, kid. Mommie Dearest . Written by Joan Crawford’s daughter. Oh, it’s both a nightmare and a dream of a book. You’ll read it before bed.” She goes

to her bookshelf, which is haphazardly stacked. Everything from James Baldwin to Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou to—of course—Audre

Lorde. The genius who first brought us together. She pulls Mommie Dearest out. Throws it to me. I catch it. Notice she’s underlined passages. Written notes in the margins like a student.

“Follow me.” She leads me to the bathroom, where she hands me an extra toothbrush. Points to the tube of toothpaste. “Now

I know I’m a mess, but I do have my pet peeves. You will push the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. You will put the

toilet seat back down at all times, and you will not piss on it. I do not like to sit on piss, is that understood?”

“Yes, Mommie Dearest.”

“Now let’s get ready for bed, Bram.” She calls me Bram naturally. The nickname sticks. “Mommie’s tired and has a full day

of work tomorrow.” She takes the bathroom first. I start the book as she showers. She sings as she engages in her elaborate

nighttime ritual of creams. Toners. Powders. A song I don’t know. I’ve got no time to live this lie. No time to play your silly games. The smell of lilac and lavender wafts out of the bathroom. Fills the space with femininity.

I skim through the book. The first sentence is just one word.

Capitalized. DEAD. A dramatic way to start.

I skip the sections that cover things I already know about Joan Crawford.

I go straight to the shocking allegations of child abuse.

Think back to my father. The chillingly casual way he used violence to control me.

I close my eyes. Remember it so clearly.

I will decide what your world is , he said before he struck me with the back of his hand. As if his words didn’t sting enough.

I realize something in this moment. Perhaps the reason I failed at romantic love with Oliver is because I was never properly

taught how to love. Lily switches to singing a new song. This one I know. Donna Summer’s “Could It Be Magic.” I have a chance

to be loved by her the way I should have been as a kid. I’ll be a new person if that happens. A secure person. The kind of

person Oliver deserves. Capable of loving and being loved.

“Your turn, boy.” Lily emerges from the steaming bathroom. Robe wrapped around her. Towel over her head. Her face looks dewy.

Her whole being emanates a floral paradise.

I head to the bathroom quietly. It’s too soon to tell her of my dreams for us. I’ll call her Mommie Dearest as a joke for

now. But soon it won’t be a joke. She’ll feel what I feel. Come to the same conclusion I have. That she is the mother I need.

And I—please let this be true—the child she wants.