“Yeah.” John nodded. “Of course.”
“OK,” Celia said. “If you’re sure that’s the way we can do the most good.”
“It is,” Harry said. “I’m sure of it.”
We started filtering money privately that day, and I’ve continued to do so the rest of my life.
In the pursuit of a great cause, I think people can be of service in a number of different ways. I always felt that my way was to make a lot of money and then channel it to the groups that needed it. It’s a bit self-serving, that logic. I know that. But because of who I was, because of the sacrifices I made to hide parts of myself, I was able to give more money than most people ever see in their entire lifetime. I am proud of that.
But it does not mean I wasn’t conflicted. And of course, a lot of the time, that ambivalence was even more personal than it was political.
I knew it was imperative that I hide, and yet I did not believe I should have to. But accepting that something is true isn’
t the same as thinking that it is just.
Celia won her second Oscar in 1970, for her role as a woman who cross-dresses to serve as a World War I soldier in the film Our Men.
I could not be in Los Angeles with her that night, because I was shooting Jade Diamond in Miami. I was playing a prostitute living in the same apartment as a drunk. But Celia and I both knew that even if I had been free as a bird, I could not go to the Academy Awards on her arm.
That evening, Celia called me after she was home from the ceremony and all the parties.
I screamed into the phone. I was so happy for her. “You’ve done it,” I said. “Twice now you’ve done it!”
“Can you believe it?” she said. “Two of them.”
“You deserve them. The whole world should be giving you an Oscar every day, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I wish you were here,” she said petulantly. I could tell she’d been drinking. I would have been drinking, too, if I’d been in her position. But I was irritated that she had to make things so difficult. I wanted to be there. Didn’t she know that? Didn’t she know that I couldn’t be there? And that it killed me? Why did it always have to be about what all of this felt like for her?
“I wish I was, too,” I told her. “But it’s better this way. You know that.”
“Ah, yes. So that people won’t know you’re a lesbian.”
I hated being called a lesbian. Not because I thought there was anything wrong with loving a woman, mind you. No, I’d come to terms with that a long time ago. But Celia only saw things in black and white. She liked women and only women. And I liked her. And so she often denied the rest of me.
She liked to ignore the fact that I had truly loved Don Adler once. She liked to ignore the fact that I had made love to men and enjoyed it. She liked to ignore it until the very moment she decided to be threatened by it. That seemed to be her pattern. I was a lesbian when she loved me and a straight woman when she hated me.
People were just starting to talk about the idea of bisexuality, but I’m not sure I even understood that the word referred to me then. I wasn’t interested in finding a label for what I already knew. I loved men. I loved Celia. I was OK with that.
“Celia, stop it. I’m sick of this conversation. You’re being a brat.”
She laughed coldly. “Exactly the same Evelyn I’ve been dealing with for years. Nothing’s changed. You’re afraid of who you are, and you still don’t have an Oscar. You are what you have always been: a nice pair of tits.”
I let the silence hang in the air for a moment. The buzz of the phone was the only sound either of us could hear.
And then Celia started crying. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should never have said that. I don’t even mean it. I’m so sorry. I’ve had too much to drink, and I miss you, and I’m sorry that I said something so terrible.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I should be going. It’s late here, you understand. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”
I hung up before she could reply.
That was how it was with Celia. When you denied her what she wanted, when you hurt her, she made sure you hurt, too.
DID YOU EVER CALL HER on it?” I ask Evelyn.
I hear the muffled sound of my phone ringing in my bag, and I know from the ringtone that it’s David. I did not return his text over the weekend because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. And then, once I got here again this morning, I put it out of my mind.
I reach over and turn the ringer off.