Music From Another World

“Uh…” Should I lie? There was probably no point. Braids or no braids, I’d given myself away. “Still in high school?”

She laughed, not seeming surprised at all. “So you’re what, sixteen?”

“Er… I will be soon. Really soon.”

“Uh-huh. What’s your name?”

I’d told her I was straight before I told her my name? Could this night get any more embarrassing? “Sharon.”

“Okay, you’re Sharon, you’re fifteen, and you’re straight. Wow, we already know each other so well.” Evelyn’s grin was friendly, though. Behind us, the sound of the instruments onstage had been replaced by a roar of cheers and shouts from the crowd. The Prudes’ set must have ended. “To get back to my question, what brought you to the Castro?”

“My brother, um, well, he’s…” I cut myself off when I realized I probably shouldn’t tell this stranger about Peter.

“Don’t worry, I get it.” She grinned. “Wow. When I was fifteen, I was spending my Saturday nights in a field tipping cows. Listen, Sharon, if you ever get back up into this part of town, you should come by Valencia Street Books. We want to reach out to more young women here in the city. Especially women your age who might not have a safe space where they can go. It’s a couple of blocks up, and we have volunteer meetings every week.”

“Oh, yeah. I think I’ve heard of it.”

“Eee-vieeee.” The growling voice was so familiar, I knew it was Midge Spelling before I turned my head. Her arm was around that guitar player’s—Johnny’s—shoulders, and they were both covered in sweat. Johnny had tied Midge’s trench coat around his waist, leaving her in just her black lace corset dress. Her shoulders and most of her chest were bare. “We’re gonna be in the back for a while if you want to come.”

“Cool, I will.” Evelyn took another puff on her cigarette. “This is Sharon.”

“Hey,” I said. I couldn’t stop staring at Midge. Wasn’t she cold?

“Hey.” Midge peered down. In her heels, she towered a good six inches over me. “I saw you from the stage.”

“You did?” My heart pounded in my chest.

“Yeah. When you walked in you looked like a deer stuck in the headlights.” She laughed, but it was a friendly laugh, like Evelyn’s.

“That sounds about right,” I said, and now all three of them were laughing.

I can’t believe Midge Spelling laughed at something I said. I can’t believe I even existed in the same space as Midge Spelling.

“It was fun watching you dance once you got into it, though,” she went on. It must’ve been another joke, but before I could laugh she’d already turned back to Johnny. “See you around.”

They walked off with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

“I’d better go.” Evelyn lifted her chin toward the stage, where another band was setting up. Two of the guys were pointing drumsticks at each other and shouting words I couldn’t make out. “You watching the next set?”

“Um. I should probably head out.”

“Cool. Anyway, come by the store if you can.”

“Cool.” I nodded. Suddenly that sounded worth considering. “I will, thanks.”

And as I turned my back, pushed my way through the thrumming crowd and walked out into the nighttime chill, there was a buzz of pleasant, unfamiliar hope thrumming under my skin, too.

Yours, Sharon

Sunday, July 3, 1977

Dear Harvey,

I HAVE PROOF.

Ha! I always knew my aunt and uncle were hypocrites, but now I have physical evidence.

Since the Miami vote, I’ve been trying to keep my head down. I got that Patti Smith album, Horses. I bought a couple of other punk albums while I was at it, but none of them can beat Patti. I listen to Horses every night before bed with my headphones plastered over my ears.

During the day, though, I can’t escape the noise of Aunt Mandy crowing about her victory. She and my uncle have been all over the news, and seeing herself on TV and hearing her own voice on the radio will always put a mammoth fucking skip in my aunt’s step.

At church this morning, half the service was about how wonderful she and Uncle Russell are, the way it’s been every week since the vote. One of the board members, Mr. Murdoch, got up and gave a speech about how lucky we are to have the two of them as our spiritual leaders. Then they took up yet another special offering for the New Way Protect Our Children Fund.

I sat there in the pew and watched as my parents and everyone else wrote out checks. The envelopes were stacked so high in the offering plates, it reminded me of those wobbly block towers my brother used to build in kindergarten. I don’t know about you, Harvey, but for me, the most satisfying part of building those towers was knocking them to smithereens afterward.

After church, all I wanted was to go home and lie on my bed and write to you, but my aunt and uncle were hosting a pre-Fourth of July barbecue, so dozens of us wound up stuffed onto their back porch. It was more of the same—everyone talking about how amazing they are, and how they’re single-handedly saving the country from sin, and how Anita Bryant must be thrilled to have such talented partners on the West Coast. I was close to puking by the end, so I told my mom I was going to the “office” in my aunt and uncle’s den to see if there was any work that needed to be done.

There wasn’t much. The phone was quiet, since it was a Sunday afternoon, and we’d just sent out a big mailing, so there were no envelopes to stuff. The offering plates were sitting on the bed, though, the envelopes already spilling out of their tower into a messy pile, so I sat down and started ripping them open and stacking up the checks for Aunt Mandy to take to the bank on Tuesday.

Every week we get envelopes in the mail with the same kind of checks. A lot of people want to make sure everyone knows they hate the gays, so they show it with their wallets. That’s a lot easier than doing the actual grunt work.

So there I was, sitting on the bed, ripping open envelopes and sorting the checks into piles—tall stacks for the $25s and $50s and $100s, a smaller one for $200s and $250s, and a tiny one for $300s and over—but I needed paper clips, so I opened the desk drawer and fished around.

Well, Harvey, guess what I just happened to find?

An old check register for the New Way Protect Our Children Fund. With all the money Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell have spent out of those generous donations.

You’d think they’d be spending it on stamps for the mailings, or advertisements, or getting brochures printed. You’d be wrong.

Harvey, that check register was absolutely full of payments to places that have nothing to do with anybody’s children.

One check was made out to a hairdresser. Two were to a golf pro shop, and most of the others were to some radio station in L.A.

I looked up the station in the phone book, and it isn’t one where the campaign is supposed to be advertising—but it is the station that reporter came from the night of the Miami vote.

It’s also the station my aunt and uncle have spent the past three years begging to give them an hour-long show so they can, and I quote, “spread the Gospel to the ungodly.”

Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell are stealing people’s money, Harvey. It was all right there in that fucking check register.

Once I figured out what it meant, I wasn’t even all that surprised. This is completely the kind of thing they’d do.

They don’t really give a shit about gay people. I never heard either of them say a single word about “militant homosexuality” until Anita Bryant came along. All they care about is how many people know their names. Now they’ve learned they can bring in cash if they preach about how important it is to protect all us poor innocent kids from the evil gays.

So I took it. I put that fucking check register right in my purse, Harvey. Then I found the paper clips, closed the drawer, and went right back to sorting those checks as though nothing had changed, except I was doing it all with a shit-eating grin on my face.

My aunt and uncle will probably never notice it’s gone. The dates on the register were from a few months ago, so I doubt they’re using it anymore. They must think they’re beyond the laws of earth and man that they can just leave something like that lying around and not have it come back to bite them in the end.

You know what’s funny, Harvey—I used to think every word they said was true. When I was a little kid, I’d sit there in the pew on Sundays listening to my uncle preach about how our culture was a hotbed of sin. I’d cry on my way home from church, I was so scared of going to Hell and seeing the devil up close.

Then, when I was six, one of my sister’s friends told me the truth about Santa Claus—how it was all a story our parents made up to get us to behave. I didn’t believe her, so she showed me in the dictionary where it said Santa was a “mythical figure.” By then I was old enough to know that if the dictionary said it, it was true—which meant everyone had lied to me my whole life, even my mom.

Back then, I’d trusted my mom.

That’s when I first got suspicious about God. As far as I could tell, the way adults talked about God wasn’t all that different from the way they talked about Santa. Every week in Sunday school, it was always the same: you had to be good, because God was watching.

For years, every time I thought about that—and I thought about it every Sunday, and during Bible classes at school, too—I felt horribly guilty. I was sure someone would be able to tell and I’d get in trouble, so I started being extra careful. I did everything exactly the way I was supposed to. I followed along with every word of every hymn. I never passed notes in church, even when my friends were doing it. I never ate dessert during Lent, even on my birthday when my mom said it was okay to make an exception.

But I always thought Aunt Mandy knew I was hiding something. The way she looked at me made me nervous, even then. She and Uncle Russell didn’t have any children yet, and I suspected she didn’t like kids much. She’d refused to let any of us into her living room since my sister once finger-painted her drapes, and that was before I was born.

Then, in fourth grade, we had to make a diorama for Science about an animal that was mentioned in the Bible, and I went over to my aunt and uncle’s house to look up antelopes in their encyclopedias. Back then, our house was down the street from theirs, and we were allowed to go over without calling first. No one answered when I knocked, but since everyone in our neighborhood left their doors unlocked, I’d gone into my uncle’s office and found the encyclopedias. I took some notes, and I was packing up my stuff to head home when I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

I should’ve just waited until I got back to my house. If I’d only held my fucking pee and gone out the side door…

But I didn’t. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, past the spare bedroom at the back of the house. I heard some strange squeaking noises coming from behind the door, and I got scared. As far as I knew, Uncle Russell was at church, and Aunt Mandy was out shopping.

I don’t know what made me push that door open. Did I think there was a burglar? Did I think the house was haunted? Either way, what good did I think it would do if I walked in? It doesn’t matter now, I guess.

I pushed open the door and stood there, blinking. The room was dark, the shades drawn, the overhead light off. The squeaking went on for another second, then stopped.

I don’t know how long I stood there before I understood what I was looking at. I know I peed my pants, though. Then Aunt Mandy and the man on the bed with her—he was actually closer to a boy than a man, not that much older than I am now, but back then, he seemed like a grown-up—disentangled themselves and pulled their clothes back on. Aunt Mandy stalked up to me, standing so tall and lifting her chin so high it was clear I was the one who was in trouble.

It’s only because I’ve replayed this moment in my head so many times that I remember how disheveled she looked. Her pantyhose were on the floor by the bed, her hair was matted and sticking up in the back, and her blouse was half-unbuttoned.

And me? I was standing there in wet green corduroys, shaking so hard I couldn’t move or speak. I could only wait for her to tell me what to do, the way I always did.

“No one will believe you if you tell,” she said, without the slightest hint of a waver in her voice. “And if you do, I’ll make sure your parents find out exactly what kind of child you really are.”

I couldn’t move. It had never occurred to me to tell anyone else about what I’d seen. I didn’t even understand what I had seen.

“I know you’re not a good girl, Tammy.” Aunt Mandy’s eyes were locked on my face. It hurt to look back, so I flicked my eyes to the man behind her. He was getting dressed, and I realized then that I’d seen his naked butt before. Ew.

Aunt Mandy grabbed my chin and jerked it upward until I had no choice but to meet her gaze. I froze.

“I know your heart,” she said, “and God knows it, too. We know all your little secrets.”

I unfroze and sucked in a breath. She knew? How?

See, now I know Aunt Mandy isn’t superhuman, for all that she’d used the word “we.” As if she was God and the queen and some two-timing preacher’s wife from Ohio all at the same time.

Then, though, I was nine, and I was scared, and I’d just seen a guy’s naked butt in the middle of the afternoon. I believed her when she said she knew all my secrets.

It wasn’t just some guy, either. I know that now, too. It took me until the next Sunday at church before I placed him—he was George Tinley. His father was a board member, one of the church’s cofounders who’d worked with Aunt Mandy on the school-board elections years before. George went to UCLA, but he came back to town during his school breaks. After I caught them, though, he stopped coming around, and before long, his parents moved to Nevada.

I have no idea when George and my aunt first started sleeping together—whether it went on for months or years, or whether it was only that one afternoon. But knowing wouldn’t erase the memory of pissing myself, or the sight of my aunt’s legs around his waist.

Sorry if that was too graphic, Harvey. My heart’s pounding writing all this down. I haven’t thought about it, not this clearly, for years. I’ve been trying not to think about it.

I should’ve realized then what a fucking hypocrite she was. All I could think about was what she’d said, about knowing all my secrets.

I believed her, Harvey. For years. Part of me still does.

She can’t know the whole truth—I’ve kept this secret so well, for so long, it’s all I think about most of the time—but I can’t shake the feeling that in some bizarre, impossible way, she does. Sometimes I’ll talk myself out of it, but then I’ll catch her giving me a cold, dark look across the sanctuary, and a shiver will run through me as it all comes back.

She was right, too. No one would’ve believed me if I’d told.

Besides, who would I tell? My mother? Aunt Mandy’s big sister, the one who took care of her after their parents died? The one who brought her out to California, then watched without bothering to get involved as her 18-year-old sister married the 33-year-old Reverend Russell Dale and slowly took over the entire family?

For all I know, my cousin Eddie isn’t actually Uncle Russell’s kid. He was born not that long after I caught my aunt with George. Maybe my aunt’s been lying to everyone for even longer than me.

Or maybe she really is the Old Testament God in earthly form, and she’ll rain down her punishments on anyone who doesn’t do her bidding.

Which do you think is more likely, Harvey?

The check register’s still in my purse. Maybe I’ll keep it there for good. I bring my purse everywhere, so I won’t have to worry about anyone finding it.

Maybe I’ll start carrying this diary in there, too. That way I’ll know my secrets are always safe.

From now on, whenever I’m listening to someone talk about how my aunt is God’s gift to humanity, I can reach in my purse, feel that fucking check register with my fingers, and remember I have solid evidence that she’s anything but.

It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. I’ve wasted so much time being scared of her, Harvey. She’s the one who should be afraid of me.

Peace, Tammy

Wednesday, July 6, 1977

Dear Tammy,

I hope you had a good Fourth of July. Do you have a summer job? I’ve been babysitting for a few families in the neighborhood. There’s one on our block that has eight kids, and I spent the Fourth with them. They have a five-year-old named Jack who’s terrified of blue fireworks, but not any other color, so every time a blue one came, I covered his eyes with my hands. We were both laughing by the end.

I really liked reading about your big family in your last letter. Mine is so small, I forget sometimes that it’s not that way for everyone. It must be nice having all those sisters and aunts and uncles around.

Here’s my answer to the next question on the list:

What are your favorite hobbies?

I play softball in my church league. Or I did, up until last year, when our coach moved to Michigan and our team disbanded.

Also, I don’t know if this counts as a hobby, but have you ever listened to punk music? Last weekend I went to a punk show for the first time and I loved it. Have you ever felt as if you didn’t belong? I do, a lot of the time—well, most of the time—but that night the music was so intense, it was as if I didn’t have to worry about any of it anymore.

I haven’t told my friends. They mostly listen to Peter Frampton and Ted Nugent. But I wondered if maybe things were different in southern California.

Yours truly, Sharon Hawkins

P.S. Sorry, I know I just asked you questions that aren’t on the official list for the pen pal project. It’s okay if you don’t have time to answer. Going to that show the other night reminded me of how lonely I get sometimes. You know what, never mind, this probably sounds stupid.

Wednesday, July 13, 1977

Dear Sharon,

Are you kidding me?

You like punk? I don’t know anyone who listens to punk!

When you said you didn’t know Patti Smith, I assumed that meant you weren’t a fan, but this changes everything.

What bands did you see? Tell me every detail! I’ve never been to a show—punk bands don’t come to Orange County—but I want to see one so bad.

I only have a few albums so far, the ones the guy at the record store said were good, but after Patti, my favorites are the Ramones and the Dictators. Have you heard the Dictators’ version of “I Got You Babe”? It’s so funny. I like Cher—her show’s my favorite one on TV—but some of her music is kind of cheesy.

If you ever got to see Patti live, I think I might literally die. Her Horses album changed my life. Or maybe it’s in the process of changing it right now. I’m still a work in progress. Just knowing Patti exists makes me feel a little less strange sometimes.

Wow, I wonder what the odds are that we got matched up as pen pals when we seem to be the only two people either of us knows who likes punk. (Why don’t your friends listen to it, though? I thought it’d be huge in San Francisco.)

Anyway, speaking of works in progress, my main hobby is art. I make collages. My art teacher says collages aren’t real art, so I can’t turn them in for credit, which I guess makes it a hobby. It’s fun, though. Messing around with pencils and glue and magazines is a great way to tune out whenever I start worrying too much.

I don’t know if I have any other hobbies, unless you count volunteering with my church. Everything around here is kind of about church, one way or another. You’re Catholic, right? My uncle started New Way Baptist, the biggest church in our part of Orange County. People come from towns all around here every week to hear him preach and to sign up for whatever campaign my aunt’s working on. I work on the campaigns, too, sometimes with my youth group and sometimes on my own. For the past few months, I’ve been stuffing a lot of envelopes in my aunt and uncle’s den.

Sorry, this turned into another long letter! I promise I’ll try to keep it short next time.

Yours truly, Tammy

P.S. I forgot you asked about having a summer job. I just started training as a lifeguard at the country-club pool. I got incredibly sunburned on my first day and now I have to sit under an umbrella, which is embarrassing.

Also, I saw where you crossed something out in your last letter. Don’t worry, I didn’t try to read it. I looked back and saw that I crossed something out here, too, but I wanted to say that if there’s anything you want to tell me, you can. We’re never going to meet and we don’t know any of the same people, so we could talk about stuff we might not want to tell other people. If you wanted to, I mean.

Wednesday, July 20, 1977

Dear Tammy,

How did Patti Smith change your life? Does your life need changing? It seems really cool already.

The day after I got your letter I got paid from one of my babysitting jobs, so I went straight to the record store and bought that Patti Smith album, Horses. I don’t know that much about punk yet, but I want to go to more shows. I think there’s a bigger club in North Beach, and I can take the bus there. If I ever find out Patti Smith is coming, I’ll write and tell you first thing.

Her album—wow, you weren’t kidding. Just looking at the picture on the cover was kind of shocking. I’ve never seen a girl who looked like her. I had to hide it from my mom before I’d even played it.

But the songs—wow all over again. Her words are almost poetry, only it’s really creepy poetry.

I’ve listened to the whole album all the way through I don’t know how many times, but I always hear words I didn’t catch before. Plus, her voice sounds strange, too. Almost like a man’s.

It’s as though Patti Smith lives in a different world, and it’s a scary world, but it’s also real in a way that this world isn’t. Do you know what I mean? It’s as if everyone else is so busy being fake all the time, but Patti Smith’s actually being honest, and it’s the first time anyone ever has been. She isn’t trying to pretend the world’s perfect and happy and shiny all the time.

Do you ever think there might be this huge worldwide conspiracy to convince us that our lives will be perfect if we just do what we’re supposed to do? I don’t know if this happens at your school, but here we get lectures about how important it is to tuck in your shirt to honor the Lord, and at dances, the teachers walk around with balloons that they slide in between couples while they’re dancing to make sure they “leave space for the holy ghost.” Once, in fifth grade, my friend Rhonda got her hand slapped with a ruler because a teacher heard her say “dang it” at recess.

The way they all seem to see it, if we follow the rules—don’t drink or smoke or have sex until we’re married, don’t wear skirts that show our knees, always go to church on Sundays—we’ll be rewarded with a house and a dog and a husband and children and a picket fence and all the other things we’re supposed to want. Except I don’t know if that is what I want. I’m allergic to dogs, for one thing. Plus, I’m sure my mother wanted all those things when she was my age, but she followed all the rules and my dad left anyway. What’s the point?

Wow. Okay, I’m sorry. I know you said we could be honest in these letters, but I’m still tempted to cross out some of what I just wrote.

It’s only that…it was kind of nice, putting all that down. I have a diary, but that’s mostly for writing about what I’ve been doing lately. This feels different.

So I’ll leave it. I should probably ask you not to put it in your report, but you don’t seem like someone who’d tell your teachers on me.