couch behind her head.
“This is all Ted’s fault,” I said. “If he hadn’t left me, I never would have been there last night. And now I’ve made a fool out of myself.”
She wrapped one of her hands delicately around my left leg. “Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Even if I am mad at you. At least you found someone who made you feel like you could fall in love again.”
“He’s straight,” I playfully moaned, burying my head in the pillow.
“It happens. No one knows why—maybe it’s heredity, or maybe it’s upbringing—but sometimes it just happens.”
I laughed, and she joined in. And we spent the rest of the afternoon watching football on television and calling Barnes & Noble to see if they had copies of The Brewster Mall in stock.
The passage of thirty-four hours had mellowed David when I finally saw him at work the next day.
“At least you discovered you’re very convincing as a woman,” he said after I told him about my night with Frank.
“I’m never doing drag again.”
“Demi Moore will be relieved.”
When I got home, there were a few messages waiting for me on my answering machine.
Beep. “Hi, Drew, it’s me,” said Denise’s voice. “A bunch of us from work are going to see Rent on Wednesday night and we have two extra tickets. If you want one, give me a call. Talk to you soon.” Beep.
Beep. “This call is for Andrew Westlake. My name is Tom Percy and I’m with Citibank. I’m calling about your Visa bill. Please return my call at your earliest opportunity. I can be reached at…” Beep.
Beep. “Uh…I’m not sure who I’m looking for, but…uh…my name is Frank DiBenedetto and…uh…I think we met Saturday night at…uh…my club.” He laughed self-consciously. “I’m looking for Belle Bacall…I guess…Uh…Anyway, call me at the club if you get a chance. The number is…”
I played the message over and over again, listening to his voice. The soundtrack in my head played “How Deep Is Your Love” as accompaniment.
3
My Life as a Man Again, and What I Did With It
I saw no reason why I shouldn’t be calm.
After all, he was just a man, and I’d called hundreds of men in my life, perhaps thousands, for the sole purpose of arranging a date or a more informal sexual liaison.
And I was a man now, too. The wig, the dress, the high heels, the stockings, the makeup, and all the other paraphernalia needed to turn me into Belle Bacall were stashed in a Macy’s bag in the back of my closet, where they would spend the rest of eternity, never again to see the light of day. Never ever ever.
But when I dialed the phone number, my entire body shook and my mouth went dry.
“Benedick’s.” An uninterested voice answered the phone.
“Frank?” I squeaked in response.
“Who?”
I took a few quick deep breaths, closed my eyes, and tried to calm down. “Is this Frank?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m trying to reach Frank.”
“Frank who?”
“DiBenedetto.” My tongue twisted over the name.
“I’m not sure if he’s here. Who’s calling?”
I swallowed hard and almost said “Belle Bacall,” but, since my one-time drag experience was in the past, I told him, “Andrew Westlake.”
“Let me check.” I heard the receiver roughly set down.
I waited for five minutes or so until he returned, listening to the dance music in the background.
“He’s not here,” he said finally.
“Well, can I leave—?”
The guy at Benedick’s hung up on me.
I dug out my to-that-point-unused copy of the Manhattan white pages and looked up DiBenedetto. There were three Franks, but none of them lived on West Seventy-second Street. There were also two Fs; I called both the numbers, and both phones were answered by annoyed women who claimed that no Franks lived there.
So I called Denise. After I begged off on her spare theater tickets and excitedly told her about Frank’s message, she said, “This is just too weird. Maybe you should let this thing drop.”
“But he called. He knows I’m a man and he called.”
“He’s straight. God knows what sick thing he’s got planned. Take my advice: If you don’t want to end up getting screwed by some guy who likes to get off with men wearing dresses, forget about him! Take a cold shower or something.”
“But—”
“Andrew…” she said, which I knew was a warning, because she always called me Drew except when she was pissed off at me. “Take a cold shower.”
The shower wasn’t cold, but it served its purpose. The warm stream of water steamed the romantic illusions out of my brain, and the loud hiss as the water sprayed the tub sealed me off from the outside world. Within minutes, Frank became a dim memory, huddled with Ted somewhere on the outer reaches of recall with other momentary pleasant memories of my past.
Fifteen minutes later—feeling refreshed, relaxed, and, most importantly, over it—I dried off, wrapped the towel around my waist, and padded barefoot across the worn hardwood floor through the living room into the kitchen. I found a water glass and a bottle of scotch and decided to indulge myself with a pleasant after-shower alcoholic buzz. I brought the bottle and glass back into the living room and made room for myself by tossing what was left of the Sunday Times off the couch.
The first few sips went down rough, but I was soon rewarded with a warm feeling of peace and goodwill toward men and the firm belief that nothing that had happened on Halloween at Benedick’s mattered, because I was still a relatively attractive thirty-five-year-old published author and someday my prince would come, even if he wasn’t destined to be Ted or Frank.
And then, as I stretched out on the couch only moments away from achieving complete inner peace, I saw a flickering red light out of the corner of my eye.
The answering machine.
The phone, I assumed, had rung while I was sealed in my showery cocoon. I debated internally whether or not to play the message back. It wasn’t going to be Frank; Frank had already passed on his chance to talk to me. And it wasn’t going to be Ted calling to tell me he’d come to his senses and wanted to return. And I really didn’t feel like talking to Denise or David, and especially not the guy from Citibank who was calling about my overextended Visa card.
On the other hand, I was in the mood to get some good news; say, that a previously unknown relative had died and left me a substantial inheritance. Or that Hollywood wanted to option The Brewster Mall.
Curiosity and optimism won out. I tapped the playback button.
Beep. “Uh…Andrew Westlake? Uh…this is”—again came the self-conscious laugh—“this is Frank DiBenedetto. Sorry I didn’t take your call before…I didn’t know who you were. But I looked up your number in the phone book and it matched, so you must be…uh…you know, Belle. Anyway, I’m gonna be here at the club for a while, so come down. If you want. Uh…you know where the office is, I guess. Bye.” Beep.
Ten minutes later, I was running down the steps to the subway platform at the corner of West Eighty-sixth Street and Broadway.
Even though it was Monday night, it still cost me ten dollars to get into Benedick’s.