Music From Another World

I waited until I heard Mom come out of the bathroom, her footsteps fading down the hall, before I cracked open my door. Peter’s room is right next to mine, but his door was firmly shut—no hint of light shining around the cracks. I checked to make sure Mom was definitely gone before I twisted the knob.

The tiny lamp perched on his windowsill was dark. The room’s only illumination was a pale yellow stream coming from the streetlight in the alley, filtered through the old yarwood tree that bumps up against our house. The echo of light crept across Peter’s floor as the wind shifted the branches.

His bed took up three quarters of the floor space. Peter’s room is so tiny we used to use it as a storage closet, until one afternoon when I was in third grade and he was in fourth, and I came home from Girl Scouts to find his half of our shared room empty. He’d hauled all the musty old boxes of baby clothes that had filled the storage room up to our tiny attic, then hung his 49ers pennant on the wall and jammed his bed in across from the window.

Mom tried to argue with him about it, but she didn’t try very hard. That night when I got up to get a glass of water, I overheard her on the downstairs phone, telling Dad to come visit.

“Peter needs a man in his life,” she was saying in a low, shaky voice.

Her words sounded strange then, and they seem utterly absurd now. Peter needed a lot of things as a kid—we both did—but our dad wasn’t one of them. He never did come visit after her call, but he sent his check on time for once.

I turned around in the tight space, then shut Peter’s door and perched on the corner of his bed, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The pit that had formed in my stomach when the anchor first announced the vote results was growing.

I couldn’t just sit there, waiting. I couldn’t shake the fear that Peter had done something dangerous after he heard the news. He’s never been great at being careful.

We’re opposites in a lot of ways, my brother and me. When our dad’s parents took us to Disneyland, I stuck to Dumbo and Peter Pan, but Peter went on the Matterhorn Bobsleds so many times, he threw up in the bushes outside It’s a Small World. If that had happened to me I’d have hidden under a palm tree and refused to show my face for the rest of the day, but Peter just got in line for the roller coaster all over again.

He’s never seemed to care if he stands out. I asked him once if it bothered him when the boys teased him at school, and he just shrugged and pointed to all the Xs on the calendar hanging on his wall. He crosses off every day, he told me, counting down until he gets out of high school and can start his real life.

I wish I knew when my real life would start. There’s never been a single place where I really fit. I try to act as if I do, of course, but it always feels like exactly that—acting. Even with my friends.

It’s that way with Kevin sometimes, too. We’ve been together long enough now that being with him is easier than being with anyone else—well, except my brother—but sometimes, I can’t help noticing that the way Kevin thinks seems so different from the way I do. As if we might as well be living on two different planets. I told Peter that once, and said it was because Kevin lived on Planet Pretentious.

I sat on Peter’s bed, wringing my hands, trying to think. Mom was probably already out cold. When I get anxious I can’t sleep, but when Mom’s worried, she does nothing but sleep.

It wasn’t as if she’d have agreed to let me go out looking for Peter regardless. Our neighborhood is friendly and quiet—relatively—but it’s still the city, and it’s dangerous for a girl to be out at night. Last year a bum grabbed my butt when I was walking past the old firehouse on Brazil Avenue in my school kilt, and that was in the middle of the day.

The wind picked up, the yarwood leaves brushing Peter’s window. A twig got stuck in the frame. I reached across the narrow space, unlatched the window, and pushed it up, snaking an arm out to dislodge the branch. It was chilly outside, and I shivered in my thin blouse.

I wondered if Peter had ever thought about climbing out this window and into the yarwood tree. If my room had a window on this side of the house, would I have thought about it?

I glanced down at the alley two stories below. It was probably full of rats and garbage and who knew what else.

Still, though…

The twig tapped against the windowpane again.

I stood up. My heart was already pounding, but I didn’t give myself time to worry. No matter what happened, I couldn’t just sit there, waiting.

I grabbed a sweatshirt off Peter’s bed, pulled it over my head, and hoisted myself onto the windowsill without looking down. My hands jittered as I stretched out to press the tips of my fingers against the branches, testing their weight.

Peter and I used to climb the trees in Golden Gate Park when we were kids. I didn’t break my neck back then. There was no reason to think I would tonight.

Maybe if I told myself that enough times, I’d start to believe it.

The third branch I checked seemed strong enough to support my weight, and I didn’t pause, not even to take a breath, before I swung out the window.

The momentum carried me too far. I was going to fall—I was certain of it—but then I swung back the other way and wrapped both arms around the branch as tightly as I could. My dangling legs felt like sodden weights threatening to pull me down, but I kicked forward blindly until I made contact with the trunk.

There was no turning back now.

I forced myself to look down, to study the angles of the branches below me. There was a thick one just below my right foot.

I inched the toe of my sneaker toward it, sending up silent, fervent prayers without taking my eyes off the branch. God must’ve heard me, because the next thing I knew the branch was solid beneath my shoe.

I told myself I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t. I couldn’t let myself be.

I lowered myself branch by branch, trying to take deep, steady breaths, but I was starting to panic. Only when my sneakers finally met asphalt did I genuinely think I might be capable of this.

When I looked up, the tree towered over me. I couldn’t believe I’d climbed down that thing on my own. Finding my brother before something else went wrong couldn’t possibly be harder than that.

I headed quickly for the store, sticking to the darkest parts of the alley so our neighbors wouldn’t see me. There was no sign of anyone outside, but the alley air smelled distinctly like pee, and there were enough broken beer bottles and cigarette butts that it was clear people did go there sometimes. Which people, I didn’t want to know. I tugged the sleeves of Peter’s sweatshirt down over my hands and moved fast, trying not to peer too deeply into the shadows I passed along the way.

When I reached the store it was dark, and the grate was pulled down and locked securely. Javi owns the store and his wife, Rosa, helps him run it, but there was no sign of either of them. Peter’s beat-up old car was out front, but it was empty.

I peered through the store window, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside. I knocked on the grate, feeling ridiculous. “Peter? Are you there?”

No answer.

I stepped back, trying to think. The store had a back door, but all the shops and restaurants on this block were connected. I’d have to go all the way to the next street over and behind the commercial strip, along the narrow row of Dumpsters. I was lucky I hadn’t spotted any rats yet tonight, but God only knew what was crawling around back there.

Besides…it was deserted in this part of town at night. At least back by our house, someone would probably hear me if I screamed.

My hands had just started to shake all over again when I heard the hissing.

I whipped around. That had definitely sounded like a person, but I didn’t see anyone. Maybe I’d imagined it.

Another muffled hiss came, closer than the first.

I should run. I knew I should run, but my feet were frozen to the sidewalk, my limbs shut down by panic.

Then the hissing turned to laughter, and I almost cried in relief. I knew that laugh. “What the heck, Peter?”

I clenched my hands into fists as my brother stepped out from the shadows with a grin on his face. I shoved him hard in the shoulder, and he reached up to block my hand before I could push him again.

“Lay off.” He chuckled. “It’s not my fault you’re such a ’fraidy cat.”

“Oh, thanks.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “That’s what I get for sneaking out to find you in the middle of the night?”

“You snuck out?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed. This isn’t the middle of the night, though—it’s barely nine. Our boring neighborhood shuts down early.”

“Well, you were supposed to come straight home as soon as you closed up. What are you doing out here by yourself? Did you…did you hear about Miami?”

Peter nodded slowly. “It was on the radio. I already knew it would happen, though.”

“What do you mean, you already knew?”

“It was obvious.” He shrugged, then stepped in front of the store and slid down with his back against the grate until he was sitting in a patch of darkness on the sidewalk. “Anita won by a landslide. It was the only thing that was ever going to happen.”

“How’d you know?” I lowered myself next to him.

“As soon as she got them to hold that vote, it was done.” He ran his free hand over his curly dark hair. “She got tired of singing about orange juice on TV and heard there was a law that gave gay people permission to exist, so she rallied all the other Stepford wives into an army, and now we’re all screwed. There was no chance the straight people would’ve voted any other way.”

I flinched, the way I always did when someone cursed. Usually Peter teased me about that, too, but not tonight. “Well, I’m straight, and I would’ve.”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet.

“Are you…?” I didn’t know what to say. “You know…sad?”

“No.” Peter gazed at a car turning at the end of the block. One of its headlights was busted out, and the other drew a faint, slow circle across the empty street. “I’m not sad.”

“Oh. Okay.” For the first time in our lives, I had no idea what to say to my brother. I knew he was lying, but I couldn’t think of a single way to make him feel any better. “Well, let’s go home.”

“Mom’ll come down. She always does when I get home.” Peter kept refusing to meet my eyes. “She’ll see you, and she’ll ground you for sneaking out.”

“Maybe not,” I said, but he was probably right. Mom would be delighted to see that Peter was safe, but I’d be in trouble for sure. She says she doesn’t play favorites, but somehow I’m always the one she decides is wrong. Plus, she still does Peter’s laundry.

“Either way—” he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket “—I’m not going home.”

“What, you want to sit here in the dark all night?”

“No. I want…” He trailed off, one hand holding tight to the cigarette pack, the other scrunching into his curly dark hair. He’s done that since we were kids. On the day he started fifth grade, when he told me how Gary Knopp had shouted “Sissy!” at him on the way into the cafeteria, he squeezed his hair so tight, strands broke off in his fist. Any time he’s overwhelmed, any time he wants to disappear, my brother scrunches up his hair. “I just want this to be over.”

“Well, it is. Miami’s thousands of miles away. They won’t be talking about it on the news after tomorrow.”

He exhaled heavily, as if I was the stupidest person he’d ever encountered. “Shar. This isn’t over. Anita Bryant and her cronies aren’t going to stop while they’re winning.”

“It’s only one city.”

“So far.” Peter tightened his fingers in his hair and let out another long breath. “I’ve got to get out of this shitty neighborhood.”

“Well…you’ll graduate next year, and in college you can—”

“Screw college.” He tugged on his hair again. It had to be hurting him. “I’m talking about right now. Tonight.”

“What do you mean?” I was getting nervous. “You’re not talking about…running away from home or something?”

“I just want to not be here.” He swept his arm out toward the darkened street. “Our fucking Catholic neighborhood. Our fucking Catholic school.”

“Did…something else happen today? Besides Miami, I mean?”

He didn’t answer.

Peter gets beat up less often than he used to, but Gary Knopp and his friends still corner him outside the library every now and then. They don’t know he’s gay, but they know he’s skinny, and that he doesn’t have many friends, and that he’s obsessed with movies but thinks basketball is boring, and that’s enough. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I always worry one day he’ll come home with a broken bone, or worse.

“You could tell Mom,” I offered. “She could speak to Father Murphy and maybe—”

“I can’t talk to Mom. How many times do I have to tell you—”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” I didn’t try to argue any more. Peter might be Mom’s favorite child now, but we’ve both heard the stories about what happens to Catholic kids whose parents find out they’re gay. If Mom kicked him out, he’d have nowhere to go.

“So what do you want to do?” I asked.

“Get out of here.” He nodded again, quickly. He was serious, which meant I couldn’t stop him. I’ve never been able to make my brother do anything he didn’t want to do, even before he got to be a full foot taller than me. “Come on, the car’s right here.”

He got to his feet, holding out a hand to help me up. I didn’t take it. “Come where, exactly?”

“Please, Sis. I don’t ask for much, but…I’m not ready to do this by myself.”

My heart started to thud again, but it was an entirely different kind of thudding than I got from climbing down the tree. He used to call me Sis all the time when we were kids, but now he only used it when something was important. “Do what?”

“I need to go where there are people who’ll get it.” Peter jingled his keys and bounced nervously from foot to foot. He wasn’t scrunching his hair anymore, though. “Castro Street.”

Shoot—it’s late. If I don’t go to sleep I’ll be useless at school. I’ll tell you the rest of what happened tomorrow.

Yours, Sharon

Tuesday, June 7, 1977

Dear Harvey,

Sorry to write you twice in one night. I didn’t plan it this way. When I wrote that first entry, I was just killing time until we got the results, but now I’m shaking so hard I have to focus on something if I don’t want to lose it.

They’re blowing up the fucking balloons, Harvey.

Everyone’s whooping and cheering and running over to that reporter, begging him to put them on the radio. I told them I have a paper due tomorrow, so I have to keep writing. Three of my teachers are here right now, celebrating with the others, but no one’s noticed I’m lying.

I’m stupid for being so upset. I knew this would probably happen.

You knew, too, right, Harvey? You expected this.

Anita Bryant on television, crowing as if she just saved humanity from the Communists all by herself. My aunt, calling all the reporters she knows, so happy she’s crying.

I thought Miami was far away. I thought if this happened, at least then it would be over and life could go back to normal. Everyone could finally stop talking about the “homosexual menace.” I wouldn’t need to spend every day walking on eggshells, using all my concentration not to give myself away. I—

Ugh, ugh, ugh. Sorry, I had to stop writing, but now I’m back. My mother brought over that Stanford guy again, the one she has this fantasy about me getting pinned to, and I had to play nice.

Mom’s been getting worse now that my sister’s pregnant. That little bump under her frilly apron right next to that shiny gold ring on her finger reminded my parents yet again that I’m sixteen and don’t have a boyfriend. Clearly, I’m going to shrivel up into a useless, flat-stomached prune if I don’t have a pin on my lapel next week and a diamond on my finger within approximately five seconds of graduation, and—

Ugh, ugh, ugh. Now Stanford guy is trying to make eye contact. I’ve got to keep writing. I can’t look at him. Can’t look at Mom. And for sure I can’t look at Aunt Mandy.

Okay, here’s what I’ll do instead. I’ll tell you about the mailers we sent out to Florida for all of last month. That will keep my pencil moving since I’ve got plenty to say about those.

Most of our mailings have three pieces tucked inside. They start with a letter from Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell (except, let’s be honest, Aunt Mandy wrote the whole thing—Uncle Russell is only the one who signs them because his name has the word “Reverend” in front of it). The letter’s all about how gays are evil, and how if they aren’t going to molest your kids, then at the very least they’re going to turn them gay, and that’s why you should recruit everyone you’ve ever met to vote against gay rights.

(Along with most subtleties, the irony of using the word “recruit” this way is completely lost on Aunt Mandy.)

The second piece is a set of pledge forms. That’s for when you go door to door, or host parties at your house, or flag people down outside the grocery store, or whatever. The more people you can get to pledge to vote yes on repeal, the faster you get into Heaven.

The third piece is the comic book. We’re supposed to call a “tract,” because calling it a “comic book” makes it sound funny and this is deadly serious business, but whatever you want to call it, it’s very clearly a comic strip some guy drew. It’s all about how gay people are going to Hell and it’s the responsibility of good Christians to tell them so. There’s one panel that shows a lesbian who’s trying to get a straight girl to sleep with her, but the straight girl’s a good Christian, so she rejects her and runs away. The gist of it is that the world is going to Hell because some gay people aren’t afraid to be gay anymore.

It’s all so ridiculous, Harvey. I’m not sure I even believe in Hell. I don’t believe in God, so I guess there’s no point buying in to the rest of it.

Wow—I just wrote those words. Here, in a church. With my whole family and everyone else I know sitting a few feet away. I’m covering the paper with my arm, of course, but I’m still shaking so hard.

I’m terrified, Harvey. It’s not that I’m scared about someone finding these letters to you…although if that happened, it would be the end of my life as I know it. More than that, though, I’m afraid they’ll see what’s inside my head.

I think Aunt Mandy already has. You probably think I’m joking, but I’m not. She can see right through people.

But I bet she couldn’t see through you. How could she? You don’t hide anything. You are who you are, and you don’t care if other people don’t like it.

I don’t know how you do that, Harvey.

I’ve read every article I could get my hands on about you. Well, I read anything I can find about homosexuals, but I love it when they quote you most of all. You’re always talking about how everyone deserves to have hope. I’ve never heard anyone say that before.

Do you have a volunteer campaign office full of people working against Anita Bryant? Do you and your friends put together mailings, too?

Maybe I can pretend that’s what I’m doing next time I’m folding up the letters from my aunt. Maybe that way I can keep going without feeling like I’m about to puke.

Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real, Harvey. You’re like something out of a fairy tale. A gay man, reviled by most of society, managing to rise above. When everyone I know hates your guts.

I despise living in Orange County, Harvey. So much. If Aunt Mandy knew I was writing to you, she’d probably tie me to a chair and bring in my whole family to pray the gay out of me.

Fuck, I’m about to cry. Maybe if I hide this notebook and go blow up some balloons that’ll keep my tear ducts occupied.

More later.

Peace, Tammy

Wednesday, June 8, 1977

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s still Tuesday night—technically Wednesday morning, I guess—but I can’t sleep, so here I am, writing again. As long as I’m awake, I might as well tell you what happened tonight after my brother and I left our neighborhood.

We parked on Liberty Street, a few blocks from Castro. It was dark out, but the streets up there were far from deserted. Our neighborhood might as well have been a million miles away instead of a twenty-minute drive.

“Is something going on?” I tugged my sleeves down over my hands as Peter and I climbed out of the car. The sidewalk was crowded with people, most of them youngish men, talking and moving fast. Everyone was heading north, and as we got closer to Castro, we could hear shouting ahead. Car horns kept honking, too. In the din, I couldn’t understand what all the voices were saying. “I mean, besides this Miami vote?”

“Nah, I bet this is all Anita.” Peter stretched up onto his toes, the leather in his boots flexing as he tried to see up to the next block. The area around Castro Street used to be just another Irish-Catholic neighborhood, but according to the news, it’s been completely taken over by gay people. The nuns at school are always saying the city’s on the brink of moral ruin, and it all starts with Castro Street.

“How do you know?” I asked, but I got my answer before my brother could say any more.

“GAY RIGHTS NOW!” A guy in a flannel shirt jogged past us, pumping his fist and shouting. Another guy next to him joined in.

Neither of the guys looked much older than Peter and me, and one of them had kind of long hair. I wondered if they were both gay, or if one of them was only there to support his friend, the way I was there to support Peter.

Then I saw the cardboard sign the shorter-haired guy was holding. The thick black letters were crooked and haphazard, as though he’d just made the sign minutes before with a marker he’d found lying in a drawer. It said WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN.

Peter tugged my sleeve, silently motioning for us to follow them. I sped up to a trot, turning the words over in my head.

We are your children. Of all the things to write on a sign, he picked that.

The year before last, down by the St. Francis Hotel, a man knocked a gun out of a woman’s hand when she was trying to shoot the president. When the newspapers printed that the big hero who’d stopped the assassination attempt was gay, his parents disowned him. He sued the papers for ruining his life.

Did the people here seriously think someone like Anita Bryant would do anything differently from that man’s parents if one of her kids turned out to be gay?

“Come on, Shar.” Peter tugged my sleeve again. He was actually smiling. I hadn’t thought there was any chance I’d see my brother smile tonight. “We don’t want to miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“Whatever it is!”

He started moving faster, into the crowd of men. A bunch of them were carrying signs now.

I followed, my heart pounding. I’d thought we were only coming to look around. I didn’t know something would be happening here, much less something involving signs and running and chanting.

It reminded me of the peace protests, when the hippies were on TV every night singing about the war. Our teachers always warned us to stay away from demonstrations, because you never knew when rocks or bullets would start flying. I’ve never heard of gay people protesting, though.

I only found out about Peter the summer before last. He’d gone away to some wilderness camp in Nevada, a present from our dad’s parents, who have this tendency to go radio-silent for months at a time, then pop up to insist on paying for things we weren’t planning on buying in the first place. Peter came back from that camp smiling bigger than I’d ever seen him smile, but he wouldn’t say why. I pestered him about it for weeks, until one night when Mom was at a church meeting and he finally said he’d tell me. We hid in my room under a blanket fort the way we used to in kindergarten, and he quietly said that over the summer, he’d fallen in love.