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Stonewall: Stories of Gay Liberation 167

Curtis looked hurt. Ada always said money was Curtis’ only
friend. “How much?” he said.
“Fifty cents,” Jerry said.
Curtis laid five dimes on the table. Jerry’s stubbed fingers deftly
flicked the change into the palm of his hand. “For the West Point
kitty,” he said.
The other hikers called him to sit with them.
Curtis drank the lemonade in one gulp. “Everything tastes like
chemicals,” he said. “Even if you could afford it, where could you
find any quality to buy these days?”
“What makes you think you could ever buy it?” Cameron sipped
his lemonade.
“As I was saying,” Curtis said.
“What were you saying?”
“I was saying the trouble with Ada is...”
“There’s no trouble with Ada,” Cameron said.
“...is the same as the trouble with me.” Curtis was relentless.
“When we were married, such a short time, we both were very
young. She was in school. We were both in school. We were peace
activists in the streets, but we fought each other. All the time. About
everything. We needed, well, a referee.”
“Someone to count you out? 8-9-10?”
“I loved...no, love, Ada.” Curtis looked about to whimper.
“That makes two of us,” Cameron said. “But I have my doubts
about you.”
“No doubts,” Curtis said.
Mala crept over next to Cameron’s chair. Jerry was playing the
harmonica, one of three he kept on a shelf inside the door, and the
four hikers were singing a German song.
“So what do you want me to do?” Cameron asked. He scratched
the dog behind the ears.
“I want....” Curtis hesitated.
“Go on,” Cameron said. “Good girl, Mala. That’s a good girl,
Mala.”
“I want,” Curtis said, “to live with Ada.”
©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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