One lazy afternoon, after having had enough of Florida’s winter fun and sun, I was sitting in front of the television in Nonnie and Papa’s 18th story living room, when the doorbell rang.
Papa was back at his store in Chicago and Nonnie was in the kitchen making lunch, so I shuffled to the large double-doors.
And there, on the other side, stood a tall, slender figure with short, blonde hair and frosted highlights; impeccably dressed in a pastel pink shirt, a flowered, silk kerchief, and crisp, white linen pants.
The stranger asked if Lenore was in.
I turned toward the kitchen and hollered, "Nonnie, there's some lady here to see you!”, before scrambling back to the television.
That was the first time I met Stanley, Nonnie’s friend (and hairdresser), who also happened to live in the same building with his boyfriend, Roger.
I would have felt embarrassed after learning of my mistake, but according to Nonnie, he was never more complimented.
Not only was Stanley Nonnie’s most colorful and lively companion - by far - but he could make her giggle more than anyone (besides my great aunts) I’d ever seen.
Even more intriguing was that Nonnie unreservedly gave Stanley center stage.
It was hard not to.
In return for stepping back from the preferred spotlight, Stanley showered Nonnie with adulation for her fashion sense, culinary skills, and interior design flare.
It was a match made in heaven.
Even though Nonnie had to whisper a lot when it came to talking about her new friend.
The next day, at Stanley’s invitation, we visited their little slice of beach-side paradise two floors up. It had the same exact layout as Nonnie and Papa’s, but flip-flopped.
That wasn’t what disoriented me.
It was the feeling that I had just entered another dimension where Nonnie's alter ego was given free reign.
Where, with unimpaired power, Nonnie’s better dressed doppleganger adorned every nook and cranny, every floor and piece of furniture, with textile and tactile expanses of purples, lilacs and lavenders.
With chintz and animal prints.
Golden cupids and satin pillows.
Velvet loveseats and silk bed sheets.
And endless yards of draped chiffon.
Where opulent silk flower arrangements sat on every gilded credenza and a colorful porcelain dog, cat, or bird resided around every corner.
As if we had just walked onto the living room set of “The Liberace Show.”
(Being Nonnie’s all-time favorite performer, I was all too well-acquainted with “Mr. Showmanship” because he was - through the miracle of television and the wonder of the 8-track tape - an integral part of the time we spent together - a wildly flamboyant, inarguably talented, inexricablly audiovisual part of our bond.)
As Stanley swept from room to room with measured grace and exaggerated ease, Roger - a dark, quiet man (who left a wife and kids, and a lie, behind) - stood in the background, smiling contentedly.
Proud of his plush and private Shangri-la.
Where he and Stanley were completely free.
Even though, for me, Stanley seemed as free as he could be.
Floating ahead of us into the newly wall-papered kitchen.
As I stepped in behind Nonnie, I thought the effect of the sun streaking through the large bay window overlooking the Atlantic was playing tricks on my eyes, until I realized the walls had recently erupted in make-believe flowers of reds and yellows, oranges, pinks and whites, floating against a dark purple sky.
As if Easter - or maybe even the Easter Bunny - had exploded.
It was glorious.
Stanley was glorious.
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