Page 49 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Great Goddess Mother, what the fuck happened to you?” Howie exclaimed.

“I was cooking,” Lenny said.

“Who’s your sous chef? Jack the Ripper?”

“Whatcha talkin’?”

“You got tomato gravy all over yourself, for goodness’ sake. And why are you smoking those cancer sticks on such a stunning day?”

“Basta!” Lenny took a deeper drag from his Marlboro and wiped the sauce from his gut with the dish rag. “It’s not like I’m smoking three packs a day anymore. Besides, I’m celebrating. I shouldn’t say anything of course—anonymity and all—but my sponsee’s got ninety days clean and sober today.”

Despite Lenny never saying it outright, Howie knew he was talking about Dory’s granddaughter, Elena, and he was thrilled.

“That’s marvelous,” Howie said, dramatically fanning away Lenny’s cigarette smoke. “Leave it to an addict to celebrate someone’s sobriety with another addiction.”

“Small steps. Small steps.” Lenny chuckled. “Now do I need to make plates of lasagna for two or three? Is our wayward Armenian American foster child up yet?”

Howie looked up past the mourning doves in the eaves by the attic vent. “Not yet. I heard him go to bed about five thirty this morning. Alone, as usual.”

Lenny looked to Heaven and shook his head. “Seriously? What a waste. If I looked as good as him, I’d be shish-kebabbing so many bottoms I could open a Greek food truck. ”

“How vivid,” Howie dronedàla Bea Arthur before growing serious. “Have you noticed how Joe seems even more out of sorts since Memorial Day? I can’t figure it out. I just wish he’d open up toone of us. I almost got him talking yesterday, but he made up some excuse about needing to buy deodorant before work, when I know he has two sticks of Right Guard in the medicine cabinet.” Howie chewed on his right thumbnail. “I just know something bad must’ve happened that weekend. That’s why my gut is like this. Whatever it was, I sense it’s earthbound—”

“Basta!” Lenny barked. “Why not just friggin’ ask him?”

“How can I ask him? He’s never around. He inhales his meals and then he’s off to bartend or work out or lock himself up in the attic like Rochester’s wife inJane Eyre—”

The wire of the back door sprung open, and Joe, his hair still mangled from sleep, stepped out onto the deck with a blue flier in his hands. Howie hoped he hadn’t heard them talking.

“Well, look at that!” Howie waved his watering can. “Sleeping Beauty awakens!”

“Morning,” Joe mumbled, his crusty eyes looking intently at the blue mimeograph paper.

“Do you like my flier?” Howie asked. “Dory asked me to design it. She’s throwing a benefit for ACT UP at Asylum Harbor in a couple of weeks.”

“What’s ACT UP?” Joe asked.

“It’s this new AIDS protest group in the city,” Howie said. “Remember Larry, the guy I introduced you to at the bar a few weeks ago? The one who wrote that delicious Liv Ullmann movie musicalLost Horizon? He and some other folks formed a group to try and get the government to do more about the AIDS crisis. You know, demonstrations, sit-ins, die-ins, things like that. They call themselves ACT UP, which stands for the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power.”

“A bunch of hophead radicals if you ask me,” Lenny grumbled as he plucked fresh basil from the garden.

“Do not start with me, Lenny!” Howie snapped. “Do you expect us to just accept government inaction about AIDS, lying down?”

“Easy there, Jane Fonda.” Lenny raised his voice to match Howie’s, then turned to Joe. “I’m not saying do nothing. It’s just the way they do it—being disrespectful to the police and mayor, causing more straights to hate us. Basta! It’s an embarrassment!”

“An embarrassment?” Howie repeated, seething. “You know what’s an embarrassment, Leonardo Gennaro Vincenzo D’Amico?” He poked a finger into the air. “That in 1976, when twenty-ninewhite heterosexual mendied in Philadelphia from Legionnaire’s disease, the country went mad to find a cure. And now ninety thousand mostly gay men are dead from AIDS, and what is the government doing? Bupkis! They want us dead. Being good, quiet gay boys doesn’t fucking work!”

The emanations from Howie’s own angry aura created a haze over the entire garden. A cluster of mourning doves, their song silenced, scattered to the highest branches of the birch tree. Howie knew arguing with Lenny was a waste of time. More importantly, he didn’t want to be in a bad mood, in case Joe was finally ready to talk.

“Lenny,” Howie said, looking at his watch, “don’t you have to set up your little meeting at the fire house?”

“Shit!” Lenny yipped. “Put the lasagna in the fridge when you’re done making yourselves a plate.”

After Lenny scurried back into the house, a quiet settled over the back deck. Howie noticed how Joe looked both intrigued and disturbed as he studied the ACT UP flyer.

“Do you like it?” Howie asked. “I did my best to be lighthearted but also serious.”

“Do you think any of that protest stuff could make any difference?” Joe said.

---