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"But so much of what you describe is not natural!" Kittredge's son cried. "I mean, I know what you are--not only from your writing. I've read what you say about yourself, in interviews. What you are isn't natural--you aren't normal!"
He'd held his voice down when he was talking about Gee--I'll give him credit for that--but now Kittredge's son had raised his voice again. I knew that my stage manager--not to mention the entire cast for Romeo and Juliet--could hear every word. It was suddenly so quiet in our little black-box theater; I swear you could have heard a stage mouse fart.
"You're bisexual, aren't you?" Kittredge's son then asked me. "Do you think that's normal, or natural--or sympathetic? You're a switch-hitter!" he said, opening the exit door; thank goodness, everyone could see he was finally leaving.
"My dear boy," I said sharply to young Kittredge, in what has become my lifelong imitation of the way Miss Frost so pointedly and thrillingly spoke to me.
"My dear boy, please don't put a label on me--don't make me a category before you get to know me!" Miss Frost had said to me; I've never forgotten it. Is it any wonder that this was what I said to young Kittredge, the cocksure son of my old nemesis and forbidden love?
