So that’s why Janet told on her.
And why she’d asked to be put in with Mr. Moorhead and the boys, even though she’d have preferred to stay with Rena and even with Lydia, so standoffish in the dream, and whose presence there, despite her neatness, picking and cleaning up after herself as she had, wiping away all she could find of her dead-giveaway spoor and all the traces of her prior tenancy, Janet had somehow suspected anyway. (All the dead-giveaway spoor she could find!) And why, of all the adults along on the holiday, it was to Nedra Carp she chose to spill the beans. Because the child, with her heightened awareness of other people’s aversion to her, could sense all aversion a mile off, had this gift the way certain animals were said to have an olfactory knowledge of fear. And why shouldn’t she? Wasn’t she blue? Wasn’t she the blue girl? (No wonder I knew she’d been there, she thought — in the dream. It was my doggy instincts.) And chose Nedra out of some still higher sense of the squeamish, not just the ordinary vibes of simple blue racism this time but even her peculiar sense of caste. Not only had she sensed that Nedra had no use for her, she sensed the reason too. It was simply because she inhabited a different room. It was simply because she was not officially her charge. Not because she was blue and disgusting but because she was not one of Nedra’s girls. As soon as she realized this she felt her heart buckle, the strange new symptom of love. So she chose Nedra, almost shy, almost nervous, bringing her the news — first checking the information by attempting to put a call through to 822 (if Miss Cottle answered she’d have hung up), only to be told by the hotel operator that the guest in 822 had instructed the hotel that she would accept no calls (“She,” Janet said, “she?” “The guest,” the operator replied coolly) — like a suitor. Sucking up, Janet thought, I’m sucking up. And didn’t mind at all, who wouldn’t have minded even if she hadn’t picked up all those other vibes as well, the sixth, seventh, and maybe even eighth senses that told her of Nedra’s antipathy to the other woman before she so much as mentioned her name. Or the other thing. That the woman she’d chosen to love did not love her back. And not only didn’t love her back but probably had an aversion to her greater even than the one she had for Mary Cottle, but whose aversion, whose squeamishness even, was not based on Janet Order’s blueness but only on that simple stupid business — her beloved nanny was stupid — that she lived across the hall with Mr. Moorhead and Noah Cloth and Tony Word and so was an affront to her.
“Oh, what a lovely room,” she began. “I do so wish I lived here with you and the other girls, Nanny,” Janet Order said.
Nedra Carp, knowing it would get back to her employer without her being the one to trouble the dear and troubled man, told Colin Bible.
Who was encouraged, almost buoyed, by the promising ease with which the fellow — Matthew Gale; his name was Matthew Gale — had been able to obtain the key. Turf, Colin Bible thought. The perks of turf. On mine, had I wished to, I could have witnessed the historic operations, met the famous sick, seen their charts and x-rays, the sheiks’ and prime ministers’ and movie stars’ who were always popping into the clinic with their secret under-the-table diseases. I could have had second helpings in the restaurant, access to the drug larders even.
Encouraged, but only almost buoyed. Too nervous still. And guilty, who still felt the humiliation of being so easily spotted and who recalled Gale’s knowing wink as forcefully as if it had been a slap. Who’d never flaunted it (and daunted by this vulgar man who did), who didn’t in even these compromised circumstances flaunt it now, and who might, so neutrally had they — the two Colins — behaved with each other in public, in the pubs they frequented, the theaters and concert halls they attended, have been taken for second cousins or businessmen or two distant acquaintances thrown together for the evening by the simple innocent agency of one or the other of them’s being in possession of an extra ticket. And even more humiliated by the memory of his own outrageous behavior at the health club, by his decoy ambush at the urinals, his skulking camouflage by the toilet stalls, by all his bad play-actor’s raving, put-on nonchalance: his prowled, clandestine presence near the equipment, covered in layers of stealth and insinuation as in a raincoat. So amusing to Matthew. Who’d called him “toots” and asked if he’d been waiting long.
He’d had second thoughts, but they’d been as much for poor old obsolescent Colin as for himself, and even after their encounter at the Spa he’d stalled Gale for two days now.
“You know what I think?” Matthew had said. “I think you’re a cock-tease.”
“No, I’m not,” Colin said. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“What is it then, dearie, your time of month?”
“Please,” Colin said, “don’t be common.”
“Am I wasting my time with you, sailor? What sort of crap is this?”
“Can’t we get to know each other?” Colin said. “Can’t we just get to be friends first?”
“I know enough people. I’ve friends up the wazoo.”
“I told you,” Colin said, “I’m no light o’ love.”
“You sure ain’t. You’re the Blue Balls Kid.”
“I told you,” Colin mumbled, “I’ve this very special friend back in England.”
“Yeah, you told me. I just want you to know something, sister. I’m getting a little bit tired of these damned Coke dates of ours. I’m a certified faggot, I don’t believe in long courtships.” Matthew was off duty. They were sitting together at a table outside a café waiting for the fireworks to begin.
“You have to give me more time.” He sounded like a foolish girl. Even to himself.
“You know something? You’re one naive bimbo. What, you think you’re the only married man ever to have gone out of town? The only bespoke hubby at the convention? One-night stands are great. Foxy old grampas do it leaning against the rusted porcelain in tearooms.”
“I’m not a foxy old grandpa.”
“You’re telling me.” Matthew smiled, appraising him. “ You’re one bitch chick.”
“Please,” Colin said. “Don’t talk like that.”
“How do you expect me to talk, Miss Priss? I’m coming on. I’m paying you compliments. I’m no Lord What’shisname. I see a skirt I go for, I have to interrupt the programs. It’s just my way.” An umbrella of fireworks opened up over the Magic Kingdom, the red, blue, and green reflections running down their faces like greasepaint. “Ooh, ahh, eh, Doris?” Matthew Gale said.
Colin wouldn’t look at him.
“All right,” Gale had said, “all right, I’ll respect you in the morning. Anything. All I want is to get you in bed. You’re driving me nuts, you know that?”
“Poofs,” Colin said.
“I’m not so bad,” Matthew Gale said.
“Oh, no,” Colin Bible said, “you’re terrible.”
“I’m not terrible,” Matthew Gale said. “You want vulnerability? I’m vulnerable. Gentle sensitivity? I’m sensitive as dick. I’m telling you the truth, old girl. What do you think, I draw graffiti on the walls? I don’t even have a pencil.”