Page 198 - Some Dance to Remember

168 Jack Fritscher

They were often exactly alike. They had the same taste in men. Kweenie,
after her own fashion, was Ryan in drag.
For her brother’s sake Kweenie tried to regard Kick without sexual jeal-
ousy. She cupped her hands under her breasts, pushed them up into place,
and worked her way through the Fey-Way crowd toward Kick, standing
resplendent in his posing briefs next to Ryan who held his clothes. She
swept up to the two men. She became very grand.
“You were wonderful,” she said. “Both of you.”
She leaned in and kissed Kick on the cheek. The sweet smell of his
body was too much. She affected a thick southern drawl. “Southern men,”
she said. “Ah want you-all to know, Cap’n Butler, that this Miss O’Hara
simply adores southern men.”
She turned to kiss Ryan. “A girl,” she whispered, “just doesn’t take
away her brother’s boyfriend. No matter how much she might want to sing
‘Stars Fell on Alabama.’”
Ryan laughed. He failed to notice she was lying through her teeth.
“I liked your act,” she said to Kick. “I’ve always wanted to see you
pose. When Ryan reads, you move so well to his rhythms. Or is it the
other way around?”
Kick took her hand in his. “Ryan has the rhythms,” he said. “I have
the moves.”
“A perfect relationship,” Kweenie said. “Mr. Yin and Mr. Yang.”
“More than you know.” He kept hold of her hand. He turned his blue
eyes long and hard on Kweenie’s face. He recognized something in the
eyes of the sister that he loved in the brother.
In the long silence between them, Kweenie’s nipples hardened.
“So,” Kweenie said, “I’m really glad you weren’t hurt in the accident.”
She pulled her hand from his. “And your car’s all fixed.”
The stereo speakers in the gallery moved into the violin pickup of
“Over the Rainbow.” Something immediately expanded in the room. A
quick silence. A short burst of laughter. The conversation resumed. For an
instant, everyone in the gallery had perked up like a patriot recognizing
the gay national anthem.
Opel whispered over my shoulder. “Did you catch that?” he asked.
“Come over here with me, please.”
“Catch what?”
“That moment of silent homage to Judy? Ah, Judy! Judy! Judy! What
Marilyn is to the silver screen and the silkscreen, Judy is to our ears.” He
moved around and confronted me. “Magnus Bishop, isn’t it? You’re here
as a critic,” he said.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK