THE TOP STOOP

(Unknown women from turn of century)

I have, in the past two decades, written a few short stories, even getting some published. I found a cache of these tonight and have decided to print a few of them here. I'm beginning with "The Top Stoop", which is based on a real party, a real household, and the start of a real relationship in my life. The party in question, on April Fool's 1981, was appropriated the following year by the Lyon-Martin Women's Health Clinic (with our consent) and became an annual fundraiser for a while, the Butch-Femme Ball.

My prior writing usually focused on a character named Myra -- she's been around for a long time. But, to avoid confusion, I've changed her name in this story to Emma, as well as that of another character whom you would recognize from the Ginny Bates novel. I refuse to go through and edit this piece otherwise: It is as I wrote it in 1998, which is NOT how I write now, thank g*ddess.


THE TOP STOOP

“Someone’s at our back door.” Emma was washing dishes and listening to Irene go over the grocery list; she hadn’t heard the knocking until Irene stopped talking for a moment. She turned as Irene opened the door onto the back stairs.

Rhoda and Helene tumbled in with excited faces. “We’ve had an idea!”

Emma began drying her hands. These were their next-door neighbors in this all-dyke building on the edge of the Mission District. Helene went on. “We want to have a party--the whole building--for April Fool’s Day! We could open up both our flats here on the ground floor, except one bedroom for cats; we could put all the furniture from our living room and Rhoda’s room into your side, and slide back the doors between the two to create a fabulous dance floor. We’d have the bar and talk area in your living room, and crank up the music loud enough for the whole building.”

Before Irene or Emma could respond, Rhoda interrupted, “Oh, yeah, the Upstairs.” She turned and went back out the door. Emma could hear the stairs creak as Rhoda climbed to the top stoop. In a minute she returned with three more women.

Their building was two sets of identical but reversed railroad flats stacked on top of each other. Geneva lived alone over Helene and Rhoda. Jill and Lava lived over Emma and Irene. Jill worked nights and slept (lightly) during the day, so Lava spent as much time in Emma and Irene’s flat as she did her own. None of them had been or were currently lovers with each other, a rarity among lesbian living configurations in 1981.

“Let’s do it!” said Lava, dropping herself into a kitchen chair. Helene looked at Jill, who nodded in agreement. Geneva, not entirely convinced, asked “Would we have a theme? What’s the point of this do?”

“Girls, I should think.” Helene licked her little finger and drew it over her eyebrow.

“Geneva’s right, April Fool--what’s the significance of that? Do we encourage playing pranks or something?” Irene was also wavering.

“You mean something besides the wonderful joke of having just elected Ronald Reagan to the Presidency?” said Rhoda dryly.

“Look, no political themes,” urged Lava. “No speeches, no fundraising, let’s just have a party. Besides,” she faced Rhoda, “It’s a fucking fluke, all right? He’ll either be gone or dead by 1984, focus your attention elsewhere.”

Rhoda and Emma both straightened, taut with rebuttal. Jill jumped in, “Okay, if it’s just a party, do we give up the idea of a theme?”

Irene said softly, “I’ve got an idea.” Her grin was wicked. Emma felt a tingle travel down both arms. Into the sudden silence, Irene offered, “A Butch-Femme Ball.”

Heat rose up Emma’s neck. Butch-femme was a forbidden zone in her circle of hothead revolutionary dykes, something feminism had neatly assassinated. S/M was just coming out of wraps, a lot of her friends were doing it: but butch-femme wasn’t just in the closet, it was out of the neighborhood. She locked her gaze with Irene’s.

“I’M in!” yelled Lava.

It was unanimous. The planning began in earnest.

“It has to be on a Saturday, everybody has meetings and stuff on weeknights,” insisted Rhoda.

“But April 1st is on a Thursday; what’s the point of having an April Fool’s party if it’s on March something?” argued Helene.

“That’s part of the trick, see. Do it the Saturday before, it doesn’t matter what date it is,” said Irene.

A general silence meant this made sense to everyone. Then Lava said, “So, don’t you think we’re going to have way more butches than femmes?”

Emma nodded. “Absolutely. I’M not going as a fembot.”

“Suck my dick, why don’t you?” asked Rhoda, pushing a long red curl out of her eyes.

Helene interjected, “But Lava’s got a point. Is there anything we can do to even up the score?”

“Well, most costume balls have a contest. Let’s have votes for best butch and best femme. That’ll bring some femmes out of the woodwork.” Everyone looked at Geneva, who went on, “We can give awards. Like a dozen red roses for the femme.”

“And what’s for the butch, a baseball glove?” Jill smacked a small fist into a small palm.

“That’s jock, not butch. How about a top hat?”

“That’s a class statement. A carburetor maybe?” offered Rhoda.

“Like that’s not a class statement.”

“Hey, my dad worked on the car every weekend and we lived in the most middle class of ‘burbs, you blue-collar snot--”

“Rhoda, Emma, save it for crit/self-crit. Carburetors drip oil. What about a wrench?” said Helene.

“Painted gold,” added Emma. Another silence meant this agenda item was settled.

“I’ll draw the flyer. How many will we need, d’ya think?” asked Rhoda.

“Oh, wow, I don’t know. I want to invite everyone at the clinic--” began Helene.

“Including Lisa of the Lips?” asked Irene with interest. Helene worked at Lyon-Martin Clinic and had an ongoing obsession with a coworker named Lisa who walked around, according to Helene, with an exuberantly luscious mouth. None of the others had yet met Lisa of the Lips.

Helene’s olive cheeks turned a little pink. “Well, I’ll ask her along with everyone else, but I can’t make it like a date or anything.”

“God forbid you should tell her you’re hot for her,” commented Rhoda dryly.

“I’ll ask the women at the co-op and the press,” said Jill.

“I can cover the Women’s Building,” offered Irene, who volunteered there.

“Whaddya mean, cover it? Let’s make sure these are personal invitations, not general flyers, okay?” said Lava.

Emma rose to Irene’s defense. “And what about you, Lava, are you going to ask every woman you’ve boinked this year or just the ones whose names you can remember?”

Lava chuckled. “Does Rat Girl count?”

One of Lava’s bar pick-ups had been a very young woman who, after coming home with Lava, revealed she carried a pet rat in her jacket pocket. Lava had woken up Irene and Emma at 2 a.m. to borrow one of their cat carriers in which to store the rat while she and its owner were otherwise occupied. The story of Rat Girl had spread instantly through the building.

“No Rat Girls,” declared Rhoda. “For the sake of my bedroom a.k.a. disco, let’s make sure a name goes on every invite we hand out. Everybody figure out approximately how many you’re gonna need and Jill, maybe?--”

Jill nodded.

“Jill can run them off for us. What kind of design do you want on it?”

“Photos!” burst out Irene. “Photos of us as butches and femmes!”

“Great idea, but where are we going to get them?”

“Those instant photo booths, black and white’ll be better anyhow.”

So it was that the next Friday, after finishing her delivery route, Emma swung by the house to pick up Irene and a bag full of cosmetics, scarves, frilly blouses, vests, a fedora and a 49ers cap. They drove out to the Musée Mechanique next to Cliff House, which had a small booth that would give them four black-and-white prints for a dollar.

“Femme last, because we’ll have on make-up,” said Irene.

“Okay. You know, in Texas we called it fluff, not femme.”

“Hilarious.” Irene was trying on the fedora, which completely hid her blond wisps. The grey of the felt exactly matched her eyes. She modeled for Emma, who fell silent, looking at her.

“That really suits you, you know it?” she said quietly.

“The baseball cap for you, then.”

Irene climbed companionably onto Emma’s lap inside the booth and they arranged their faces in the reflecting glass. Emma slid the curtain against the group of tourists already watching them. Suddenly the booth felt small and dark. Irene giggled, “Are we going to smooch for one of the shots?”

“NO,” said Emma quickly.

They had lived together for two years, Irene being a replacement for Emma’s previous roommate who had moved to San Fran with her from the land collective in Colorado. Both 25, they had become instant buddies, agreeing on what music to play and the importance of having dinner together whenever they could. A few nights a week, one would fall asleep in the other’s bed as they sat up late, talking, and they would cuddle like eight-year-olds till morning. Emma took long hot baths against the constant chill in their flat, and Irene had gotten into the habit of joining her, where they played with plastic toys and talked about strategies for the Revolution.

Irene had a new-ish girlfriend named Judy Green. Judy Green was good in bed, Irene said, but she wasn’t “it”. Emma had been left, finally, by her girlfriend Maxie just before Valentine’s Day. She was dating sporadically but kept declining offers to stay the night, preferring instead to go home where she could maybe find Irene alone to tell her all about the date.

They settled on one single shot of each of them and two shots together, smiling and not-smiling. After the butch strip slid down into the little metal cage, they took turns putting make-up on each other’s face.

“I’m no good at this,” lamented Emma as she toiled over Irene’s face close enough to smell the Chapalita burrito she’d had for lunch. “I’ve spread this red so wide around your mouth you look like something from Ringling Brothers.”

“I don’t care. It’s all drag, anyhow. I don’t get the idea of lipstick in the first place; it’s just plain icky kissing someone who’s wearing it, like licking a crayola,” replied Irene. “Here, should I go for the blouse with these ruffles or is the 1975 mod look with the big zipper better?”

“With what little hair you’ve got, you’d better do the mod thing and hope for Twiggy.”

They dropped off their photo strips to Rhoda and dumped their bags in the front hall just before sunset. “I’ll get the challah if you’ll do the candles,” said Emma.

“Just as well, you still don’t have the prayer right.”

“Well, for someone raised Southern Baptist I’m doing okay, aren’t I?”

“You can be my shabbas goy any day.”

“I thought I was your shiksa.”

“Shiksa is not so good, Emma. You need to learn, it’s one thing to use these terms jokingly among dykes, like putz and shtup and drek, but if you’re hanging out with people like my parents, you ought to know you’ll offend them if say you nearly plotzed.”

“......Okay.”

“Come on, I’m not mad at you. Is anyone else coming tonight?”

“Haven’t heard. Why is it that I’m the only gentile in the building, d’ya think?”

“Karma.”

"What time did we say that Butch-Femme Ball is going to start?”

“8, I think. And yes, we’ll be able to do havdallah that night. Turn off the overhead, will you, Emma?”

That night Emma went to bed early, tired from the week. She had a rally at noon the next day. The sliding doors between her room and Irene’s were open, and she could still smell wax from the candles on Irene’s mantle. Irene asked if she could play her hammer dulcimer a while. Emma said, “How many times have I told you, I adore listening to you play as I drop off?”

“I know, but good roommates always ask.”

“We are good roommates, aren’t we?”

“The best. This is the kind of home I always wanted, Emma.”

“What are you going to play?”

“Any requests?”

“You read my mind.”

Irene began the tinkling notes of Mahnavu. This was a tune she and Emma danced to at the Israeli folk-dancing classes Irene taught at the Women’s Building on Tuesday nights. Emma closed her eyes and remembered the steps, a kind of leisurely grapevine weave that doubled back in the other direction. The dykes in the class danced this in a circle with their arms around each other. The record that Irene had of Mahnavu was sung by a woman in a dark, throbbing voice. Before Irene the dancer entered her life, Emma had never thought she was coordinated enough to move in step across a floor. Irene had taught her patiently, humorously, and now when she did Mahnavu Emma was confident and at times exultant. She would look across the circle at Irene and catch her eye as they spiraled around.

On nights when Judy stayed over, the sliding doors were closed, but Emma could still hear clearly what went on in Irene’s room. She liked the sounds of their lovemaking, especially Irene’s sweet moans that grew closer and closer together until she was sobbing with every quick breath. Judy complained that she and Irene didn’t have sex often enough, but Emma thought quality rather than quantity ought to count for something. Probably the real issue was that Irene wasn’t in love with Judy and Judy could tell.

Geneva showed up at their back door the following Sunday as Emma and Irene were eating pancakes. “I bought the roses,” she announced.

“What? The party’s not for another week,” protested Irene.

“I was in Chinatown and saw these incredible silk roses, looking so real I could smell ‘em. This way she’ll have something for a keepsake, our Femme. Wanna see ‘em?”

“Might as well. Rhoda bought the wrench, and Jill says she’s got gold spray paint left over from some graffiti action. Let’s do the props.”

Everyone assembled at the miniscule square of concrete out back called their “courtyard”.

“Shouldn’t we spread a dropcloth or something?” asked Jill, a furrow dividing her high forehead all the way up to her chestnut hair.

“Why?” drawled Rhoda. “So we don’t damage the rat droppings?”

“Hey, where’s Helene?” asked Emma.

“Camping.”

“With Lisa of the Lips?” asked Irene.

“She wishes. Nah, some old friend.”

“Why doesn’t she just tell Lisa? I can’t believe anyone, even the Lips, would turn down an offer from Helene.”

Emma eyed Irene. “Sounds like you have a thing for Helene, my dear.”

“More like a little crush. My God, that jet-black hair of hers,” Irene confessed.

“And the way her smile illuminates her entire face,” added Jill shyly.

“For me it’s all about those big hazel eyes, and how she can never hide her mood, her eyes give her away,” said Lava.

Emma joined in, “I love watching her work on that piece o’ crap VW she’s got, an idiot book open at her feet, her lips pursed in thought. Her forearms have serious muscles in them, and when she lifts up a filthy finger to push back her little glasses, I think about those same hands doing pelvics at the clinic.”

Geneva, their elder at 32 and usually reserved, said laconically “Well, I’d do her.” They looked around at each other speculatively, until everyone’s eyes settled on Rhoda. She burst out with, “You think YOU have crushes? You ought to see her come all rosy and moist from the shower every morning!” They cracked up.

“My god, do you think she has any idea?” asked Emma.

“Not a clue,” said Rhoda. “Now, let’s get this wrench painted. Give me the can, I’m doing it, I’m the artist here, fuck consensus.”

“In that case, I’m outta here. I have to call my Mama,” said Emma. “And after that, I’m heading to Purple Heart to shop for party duds.” Irene pretended to block Emma’s way every time Emma tried to get around her. Finally Emma said, “Pretty please?” and Irene gave her a quick hug, then let her go, calling after her “Say hi to Mom for me.”

When Emma got home that night, Irene was dipping slices of tofu into beaten egg, then brewer’s yeast, then sesame seeds before lowering them delicately with her long fingers into sizzling butter. Emma stood behind her and linked her hands over Irene’s solid belly. Irene leaned back into her and turned her head sideways to say, “There’s rice already steamed, and some broccoli from last night if you want it.”

“When will you ever learn?” Emma took three hot dogs from the freezer and set them in the toaster oven to broil.

“I can see the little hooves and snouts on the package of that shit.”

“I may be treyf, but my politics are pure.”

“Judy’s coming over later.”

“Okey-doke.”

“Would you be willing to talk to her?”

“What do you mean?--I do talk to her.”

“About us.”

“Which us -- you and me us, or you and her?”

“Both, I guess. She’s starting to get jealous ‘cause you and I are so close. She just doesn’t get it. Maybe you could reassure her.”

“Okey-doke.”

Emma pulled her favorite blue plate out of the cupboard. “Want your bowl?” Irene always ate with chopsticks from a shallow wooden bowl.

As Emma spread mustard on her buns, Irene said, “Let’s eat outside.” Although their tiny back area faced only rear walls of flats along 14th Street, if they climbed the stairs to Lava’s stoop, there was a sliver of view -- Bernal Hill, sometimes a moonrise.

Emma sat on the top step, her plate on her knees. Karen stood down two steps, facing her, her bowl balanced on one broad hand. Swallowing a bite, Emma said, “Hhmm--I ran into Chaya at the Haight St. Co-op.”

“My Chaya?” Irene had been part of an infamous Vermont living collective known as Blue Jay. She’d been the first to move to the Bay Area, but in the last two years almost everyone else in Blue Jay had followed her example, including Chaya.

“Well, I don’t know as how she’d call herself yours....She says she’s coming to the party. She’s dressing as a 50’s style hoodlum.”

“A greaser?”

“Rebel without a cock. I could really go for her, you know? Those broad shoulders, and that way she keeps looking steady at you.”

“It’s all looks. She’s not that good,” said Irene nonchalantly.

“Jesus, Irene, did everybody in Blue Jay fuck each other?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’ve slept with all your friends, haven’t you? How can you do that?”

“What do you mean? It’s just, like, sooner or later it comes up, you say ‘Ya wanna?’, and if they say yes, you have a good time.”

“Well, duh. What I don’t get is how you can be attracted to every friend you’ve got. Is it real attraction?”

“Real?”

“Oh, never mind. It’s just that...it takes something in particular to turn me on.”

“Like broad shoulders?”

“Ouch.” They were both laughing.

“Emma, there’s falling in love and then there’s being hot. You know the difference. I just act more often on the hot end of things.”

“More often is an understatement.”

“Jealous?”

A thought suddenly appeared and hung like a single jolting note in Emma’s brain. She gave it voice before thinking.

“Irene -- Have you ever been attracted to me?”

Irene was lifting the last of her rice toward her mouth. She stopped still, chopsticks frozen in mid air, and settled her grey eyes on Emma’s brown ones.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered.

Emma felt herself drench instantly. She knew her face was raw, but she couldn’t look away.

“Irene,” she breathed.

They sat motionless for a few seconds. Then the door behind Emma swung open abruptly, and Emma’s heart lost a beat as Lava yelled “FUCK, you scared me, I didn’t know anyone was out here....What are you two up to?”

Irene’s rice completed its path to her mouth, and as she chewed she said evenly, “Eating dinner.”

Emma stood up. “I’ve gotta scram, got a meeting. Can I leave my dishes till later?”

“I’ll do ‘em.” Irene stepped completely aside as Emma walked downstairs.

Emma got home just before midnight. Irene’s room was dark, and the sliding doors into Emma’s room were closed. Emma pulled off her overalls and boots, picked up the orange cat, and climbed under the quilts on her own bed.

Ten minutes later she was knocking gently at Irene’s door. “'Rene? Are you alone?”

Irene’s groggy voice replied, “Come in.”

Emma lifted Irene’s comforter and curled into her warm side. “It’s too noisy to sleep in my room. Okay if I’m in here?”

“Um-hm. Hand me the water?”

Irene was often thirsty at night. She kept a fresh jar of water by her bed. After a couple of gulps, she asked a little less drowsily, “Is it Lava?”

“Yeah, and that new girl of hers, Rach. She’s a BIG girl, that Rach.”

“Um-hmm.....But Lava’s a size queen.....Was Lava begging her to stop?”

“In spades. But somehow I could tell she didn’t mean it.”

There was a long spell of quiet. Emma could feel Irene’s breathing extend itself out into the room and spool around her like a mist.

“G’night, Irene.”

“Stay close, okay?”

“Okay.”

But that night and the next, Emma hardly slept. On her way to work Tuesday she saw Lava walking to Valencia. Impulsively she stopped and motioned Lava over.

“Listen, could we have dinner together tonight? I need to talk something over with you.”

“Six-ish? My place or yours?”

“Actually, neither. I need to talk about Irene, and I’d feel more comfortable if we met elsewhere.”

Lava look wary. “Hey, I don’t like to get into that roomie power struggle scene.”

“That’s not it.” Emma couldn’t think of how to say what it was. “Will you just meet me at Happy Boy?”

“Gag me.”

“Irene never goes there and--

“Neither do I.”

“Oh, Lava, please.”

“Well, all right. But pick me up at the corner, I don’t want anyone to see me walking to Happy Boy.”

Once settled in a green plastic booth, Emma lay her cheek down on the cool formica and sighed. Lava was looked at her menu in disbelief. One of the three young sisters who worked as waitresses came to them with glasses of water and sets. She beamed at Emma.

“The usual?”

“Sure,” said Emma.

“And what, dare I ask, is the usual?” demanded Lava.

“A cheeseburger, extra mayo, onion rings and a vanilla coke.”

“Where does their beef come from?”

“Lava, just order.”

Lava asked the waitress, “Do you have chamomile tea?”

She looked blank. Emma stepped in. “She’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich on rye, a small salad with oil and vinegar, and a chocolate shake.” As the waitress left, Lava commented, “Emma, can you say mucus?”

Emma cut to the chase. “I think I’m falling in love with Irene.....Shut your mouth, there’s a lot of flies in here.”

“Whh--when did this happen?”

“Three days ago?”

“Does she know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, have you told her?”

“No. She told me she was attracted to me, and in that instant I realized I was attracted to her, who knows for how long, and since then I’ve been on fire. We’ve started keeping the length of the house between us. I don’t know what to do.”

“On fire?”

“Like I’ve never felt before.”

“Well, that kinda makes sense -- nothing like the forbidden to fan one’s flames.”

“I know, Lava. Messing around with roommates always spells disaster. Good households are a lot hard to find than sex.”

“Well, actually, I was referring to her having a lover,” pointed out Lava.

“Oh, Judy.” Emma made a raspberry sound.

“Shit, you are in trouble.”

Their food arrived. Lava took a big drag on her shake. Emma asked, “Should I talk to her?”

“What were you thinking of saying?”

“Confessing, I guess. Explain why I’ve been acting so weird. Tell her I know becoming involved is out of the question for us. Maybe we could get counseling.”

“Isn’t Judy trying to get her to go to couples’ therapy?”

“Why do you keep bringing up Judy? I’m talking about me and Irene!” cried Emma.

Lava shook her head. “This condition is too far advanced for Dr. Lava to treat with a round of pills. Radical surgery is called for.” She pointed her fork for emphasis. “Don’t talk to her, it will only create an illusion of legitimacy for a relationship that can’t exist. Don’t let yourself fantasize about her; just keep changing the channel whenever the Irene show comes on. Keep to your normal routine with her. Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be at folk-dancing right now?”

“Yes,” said Emma miserably.

“Well, don’t skip it again. Girl, as the immortal Runt said, ‘We gotta get you a woman.’ Is it definitely over between you and that nose ring dyke, Maxie?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Any other twinkles in your eyes?”

Emma suddenly thought of Chaya. “Maybe.”

“Distract yourself. This too shall pass. Now, can I have one of your onion rings? D’ya suppose they use canola oil here?”

The next afternoon, the gate buzzer sounded as Emma was cleaning out the refrigerator. She released it without checking to see who it was first. Judy strolled into the kitchen and plopped down in a chair behind the open fridge door. Her voice drifted over the top of the door to Emma.

“Where’s Irene?”

“I don’t know.” Emma picked up a screwdriver and began chipping at the ice on the freezer wall.

“You shouldn’t do it that way, you know.”

“I know.” Her lips were pressed together so hard they hurt. She tried to relax her jaw. She could see Judy’s shoes under the edge of the door.

“Does Irene ever talk to you about me?”

“If she did, Judy, I couldn’t tell you about it.” God, does she whine all the time and I’ve just never noticed it?

“I hope she’s talking to somebody. She just keeps walls up between us, you know? I’d do anything for her, but she keep me at arm’s length.”

These fucking slumlords, filling their flats with appliances that were old when I was born. This freezer produces more ice than Minnesota.

“I mean, she says she wants to settle down and get serious. And that means a lover, right? I mean, I know you guys are tight and all, but roommates aren’t who you go off into the sunset with, right?”

The door on this thing probably weighs 100 lbs. Just opening it requires a clean and jerk.

“And I know she loves how I make love to her, she comes like the Fourth of July, usually more than once.”

If I lift upward, maybe I could slide the door completely off the hinges. It would topple backwards and crush anyone behind it.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. “Judy? That you?”

Judy’s shoes scuttled backward. “Irene! I came early, I thought we could have a romantic evening.”

Irene’s face peered over the refrigerator at Emma. “Wow, look at what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, well, the party’s in three days and this place is a pit. But fuck it, we can just buy ice, I’ve had it with this fucker. I’m going for a fucking drive.”

She slammed the refrigerator shut. Irene moved silently out of her way. When she reached the front door, she realized she still had the screwdriver clenched in her fist. She set it gingerly down on the phone table, grabbed her keys, and decided watching the lights on Market from Twin Peaks was a really good idea.

At 7:00 on Saturday, Emma was concentrating on ironing a crease into her dickies, but she could sense Irene standing in her doorway.

“Can I borrow your car to go get Judy? She doesn’t want to ride MUNI in her outfit.”

“Sure,” said Emma, not looking up. She had hoped against hope Judy would decide not to come.

“Well--aren’t you going to tell me how I am?”

Emma cleared her expression and faced Irene. Irene had on a pale blue muscle shirt tucked into button-up Levi’s. Over this she wore a crimson silk vest.

“Way cute -- cute more than butch. No fedora?”

“Nah, I plan to dance, gets sweaty wearing a hat. See ya soon.”

Emma wished she had time for another bath but opted instead to watch her face and pits. Back in her room, she stepped into her dickies and began stuffing a crisp white T-shirt into it. Then, with a sigh, she pulled off the shirt and rolled the short sleeves up to the shoulder seam before putting it back on. Over this she slid her black leather vest, sniffing of the lapel as she always did. She pondered between her hiking boots and her Justin ropers, then rejected both in favor of her black Converse high-tops. As she was pulling out her collection of cock rings, Irene and Judy arrived.

Judy whirled into her room in a pink, flounce-skirt housedress like her mother had worn during the Kennedy administration. She had on opalescent pearl lipstick and too much blush. She struck a coy pose as Emma noticed a pearly lip mark on Irene’s neck. Unable to push down her sudden rage, she distracted herself with picking out a bracelet to wear. Judy stood still, then looped an arm around Irene’s waist.

“Hey!” said Irene. Emma stopped breathing. “What’s that one, I’ve never seen that one.”

She pointed to a black leather cock ring studded with long silver spikes.

“Yeah, I never wear it because these suckers are really sharp, I cut my skin whenever I wear it.”

“Let me see.”

She handed Irene the ring before she snapped a selection of bracelets onto her right arm.

“Can I borrow this for tonight?”

“Sure. Just don’t damage yourself.”

Judy snickered. Emma swallowed hard and said, in a perfectly friendly voice, “Nice dress, Judy.”

“Thanks.”

“What about you, do you want the fedora?” asked Irene.

“Not with this outfit. I need to grease my hair back, but I don’t know what to use.”

“Oh. You’re going as a greaser, too.” Irene’s voice was suddenly distant.

Judy chopped into the small silence with, “Don’t you have oil in the kitchen?”

“Hell, Judy, I’m not going to put Wesson on my hair! What I really need is butchwax, but I don’t know if they even make it any more.”

“You could ask Lava for some of her lubricant.”

“You’re a sick puppy. I think I’ll go see our neighbors for help.”

The front rooms next door were bare except for stereo speakers in the corners. Helene answered the door in a black lace bra and cuffed linen trousers. She said Rhoda was shut up in Helene’s bedroom with the cats, messing about with garter belts. “Do you know how to tie a bowtie?”

“Nope. I can do a four-in-hand, though.”

“Never mind, I’ll use the clip-on.” She took Emma’s arm and led her to the bathroom. “Let’s see what kind of schmaltz we’ve got in our medicine cabinet.”

“This’ll work,” she announced, pulling a tube off the shelf.

“What is it?”

“You separatist you. It’s K-Y.”

“Absolutely NOT.”

“Oh, for pete’s sake, it’s doesn’t have boy cooties on it. It’s just a clean, water-soluble gel. No one will know.”

“I’ll know. It’s gross.”

“Have you ever even seen it?” Helene squeezed a dab onto her finger. “Look at this, is this going to make you heterosexual?”

It looked a lot like the Brylcreem Emma’s dad once used. “Will it shampoo out?”

“I said, water soluble.”

A new suspicion dawned on Emma. “What are YOU doing with this stuff?”

“I work at a women’s clinic, bonehead. Self-help exams, plastic speculums? Now what do you say, are you going to give it a try?”

Emma wavered.

“I’ll do your hair for you, how about that?”

Emma thought about Helene’s arms raised up over her, with Emma’s head bowed down, her gaze directly in line with that black lace barely holding in voluptuous breasts. “Okay. But this better work.”

It took the whole tube of K-Y to get the right look. Helene remarked, “It’s a good thing you buzzed it recently. But this forelock of yours, it’s simply gorgeous, all brunette menace. And it’s not falling out of place when you move your head, either. Now all you need is a ‘57 Chevy.”

When Emma came back home, Lava was standing in the living room wearing pinstripe trousers, her black leather jacket, and nothing else.

“Wow, Emma, you’re scary.”

“Thank yew, thank yew verra much.”

“I don’t know what kind of shoes to wear with this. And can I borrow the fedora?”

“Yeah, it’s on my bed. Nice pants--is that part of the tux you stole at your brother’s wedding?”

Someone knocked at their front door. Emma looked alarmed. “We’re not ready yet!”

Lava moved toward the door. “I think it’s just Rach, she was still dressing in my room when I came down.”

Rach glided slowly into the hall. She had on a sweeping ball gown of silver brocade that rustled when she walked. Its deep décolletage almost allowed her generous coffee-colored breasts to spill over. Long dreads dangled onto her bare shoulders. Glittering platinum pumps added three inches to her 5’10” frame, making her taller than Lava for once. A pair of sequined red sling-back heels dangled from her hand.

Emma gaped. She heard Irene down the hall say “Take me now, lord.” Rach smiled shyly at them, then asked, “Do you think the silver ones are right, or should I wear the ruby slippers?”

“Don’t change a thing,” breathed Emma.

“I’ll take those slippers!” crowed Lava. She quickly unbuttoned her trousers and peeled them off, revealing no underwear. She sat down on the floor to put on the heels. She had a little trouble with the buckles, and stood up cautiously as if on stilts.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re wearing?” asked Judy.

“What? Should I zip up the jacket?” leered Lava.

“I gotta admit, the heels do something for your calves and thighs. Might as well show it, right? Just don’t leave the building like that,” advised Emma.

“I don’t plan to be more than six feet away from Rach the whole night,” replied Lava.

Emma heard Irene mutter, “Now that’s a femme.” Emma almost glanced at Judy in commiseration, but instead went into the kitchen to set out ice.

By 10:00, both sides of the building were pulsating. They propped the grilled gate open out front because the buzzer was driving them nuts. Emma was amazed at how many of her friends had dredged up suits from somewhere. Rhoda emerged in an emerald green sheath that, she confessed, was really just bolts of silk she’d tucked under and safety-pinned on. Emma thought it suited her rather better than the flannel shirts she usually wore.

Chaya was an early arrival. She gave a whoop when she saw Emma and threw a powerful arm around her shoulders. Emma could smell Chaya’s armpit, and resisted the urge to bury her nose in it.

“Let’s go somewhere so’s we can talk a bit, shall we?” asked Chaya. Emma led her into their flat, grabbing a Calistoga along the way. As she opened the door to her bedroom, she saw Irene trailing her down the hall. A few feet behind Irene was Judy.

She and Chaya settled down on her rug and began talking. Irene appeared in the doorway briefly, then went on toward the living room. Judy echoed her passage. After ten minutes, Irene went by in the other direction, giving only a glance into her room. Emma had scooted over closer to Chaya so she could hear her better. And there went Judy. After another five minutes, Helene came into Emma’s room with a Polaroid.

“I’m taking pictures for the contest later. Care to pose together?”

“Sure,” said Chaya, standing up and pulling Emma to her feet. “We belong to the same gang, don’t we, Ponyboy?”

They postured and blinked as the flash went off. “Nice work, you two. Irene said it would make a good picture.” Helene began fanning the print in the air. “Listen, Emma, would you mind coming over and making an announcement about the contest? You’re not shy about public speaking, and we need people to come get their picture taken if they want to compete.”

Bowing to the inevitable, Emma followed Helene back to her side. They turned off the stereo for her to speak, and she went blank momentarily as she saw Irene standing at the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, one hip stuck out defiantly. A little cluster of very blonde women came in the front door wearing leather chaps and hobnail boots but no shirts. Some of them had on leashes. Uh-oh, the Aryan Nation is here. She collected her thoughts and did her spiel.

After the music went back on, she looked around for Chaya. A hand grabbed her arm just above the elbow: it was Irene. “Can I have this dance?” she asked.

“Irene, you know I can’t dance.”

“Bull-shit.”

“Not this kind of dancing.” She felt sweat trickle out from under her breasts.

“Hey, I’m your teacher, right? Leave it to me.” Irene pulled her out into the middle of the room.

“Now, put your head up close so you can hear me as I tell you what to do. Put one hand here and just hold me lightly. We’re going to do a slow version to this fast music, ‘cause that’s a lot easier for a beginner, yes? Don’t worry about looking at my feet. I’m going to slide one knee in between yours and all you have to do is let my knee guide yours. That’s right. Put your face on my shoulder and just feel the motion. It’s not that different from Mahnavu, except we’re touching.”

“We’re touching all over, Irene.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Irene, Judy’s watching.”

“This floor is really crowded, she can’t see us that clearly.”

“Chaya’s watching too, I just saw her.”

“Good. Relax, Emma. You’re a wonderful dancer, and it’s just old Irene, remember?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“Welcome to my world.”

After the dance, Emma broke free and elbowed her way down Rhoda and Helene’s hall. She had no idea who most of these women were; where had they come from? She stopped in the bathroom to rinse her face. As she was leaving, she came face to face with Helene.

“Emma, isn’t this unreal? I’ve run out of film, we’re just going to have to judge in person.”

“Well, I’ve still not seen anyone to beat Rach.”

“Hear, hear. And speaking of which, that was some steamy dancing you were doing with Irene. I didn’t realize you were so talented. Is your dance card full?”

Emma muttered, “I don’t really dance” and fled toward the back.

In her own kitchen she ran into Lava who said, “Rach and I just did a count. I stood at your front door and kept a running total of who came in there while Rach worked her way down your hall and up the other side, tallying away, and we added the two, and guess how many women there are here right now?” Before Emma could try to wrap her feverish brain around this math problem, Lava burst out, “327!”

No wonder we ran out of ice. “That’s not possible. We don’t know that many lesbians.”

“Well, it is possible, but you’re right about the second thing. One of the women who just showed up? she’s in town visiting from San Diego -- she went to Amelia’s Bar and saw one of our flyers posted there on the back wall.”

“Shit fire and save the matches.”

“That’s not all. Another woman nearby spoke up and said yeah, she’d come because of a flyer that was up at Scott’s Saloon.”

“Oh, jesus, we’re drawing women from Scott’s?” Emma’s blood turned to slush. “We’re gonna get hurt.”

“Or laid. Or, if we’re very very good, both.” Lava winked and bustled off down the hall. At the far end of the hall, just inside their front door, Emma saw Irene’s towhead headed in her direction. She pushed her way out the back door and climbed the stairs to the top stoop. For the first time in hours, she was free from humanity pressing close around her. A fine drizzle was coming down, but she didn’t care, she filled her lungs with big gulps of moist air and leaned on the railing, her eyes closed.

The last step at the top squeaked slightly behind her. She didn’t startle or even look around. Irene’s voice said in her ear, “I thought you’d be up here.”

Emma let out her breath and turned into Irene’s arms.

Never in her life had kissing felt this good. Irene was slow but thorough, starting at the corners of her mouth. She tasted like she’d smelled all these years. Emma slid her hands under Irene’s muscle shirt, and Irene gasped, laughing, at the cold. Emma didn’t wait to warm up her hands; she cupped them lightly over Irene’s small breasts, feeling the nipples pucker into her palms. She moved her head so she could whisper in Irene’s ear. “I want your milk in my mouth.”

Irene moaned and began sucking gently on Emma’s lobe. After a while she explored the folds of Emma’s ear with the tip of her tongue, going deepest not into the canal but into the cleft just above it, exhaling rhythmically onto Emma’s pounding eardrum. Emma parted her fingers and caught Irene’s nipples between the first two fingers on each hand. She squeezed her fingers together, and Irene arced against her. They found each other’s mouths again.

Irene slid both arms around Emma and pulled her in tight, her hands clasped at Emma’s waist. Emma spread Irene’s legs with her thigh and opened her eyes to watch Irene’s face as she began a subtle rocking. Irene looked back at her and, with a grin, slid her hands under Emma’s leather vest. She walked her fingers up Emma’s spine like a ladder, keeping time to Emma’s motion. At the base of Emma’s neck, she turned her right hand so its wrist was in line with Emma’s vertebrae. Emma felt the spikes dig into her as Irene pulled them down her back. She cried out into Irene’s mouth. Irene didn’t stop. Emma felt small tears start in her T-shirt. She wasn’t sure if the moisture was from the rain dribbling down her neck as Irene held the vest away from her back.

Above the clamor of the party, a voice in perhaps Helene’s kitchen asked plaintively, “Has anybody here seen Irene? She’s just disappeared.” They didn’t hear anyone answer Judy. Emma began laughing, and Irene covered her mouth with her hand but laughed just as hard. They clung to each other in weak-kneed delirium. Finally Irene whispered, “What are we going to do?” Emma leaned back to meet her eyes and said, “Get rid of her.”

“Okay.”

The flats finally cleared just before dawn. Rach had gone upstairs with Lava to celebrate her prize for Best Femme. Jill had disappeared with one of the leash women. Lisa of the Lips had never arrived, and Helene was despondent. Rhoda was in their kitchen furiously scrubbing out one of her raku pots that had been appropriated as an ashtray. Geneva climbed onto a Harley with someone named Ronnie and they roared away into the gathering light. Emma spent the last half hour of the party sitting on the front steps, saying goodbye to women she didn’t know and listening to Irene have a low-level fight with Judy. At last Judy said, “I think I should go home,” and Irene replied, “I could use a little space. I’ll call you on Monday.”

I doubt that. Emma scooted over to let Judy leave, and felt the cuts on her back sting. She stood up, walked in her front door, and locked it.



© 2008 Maggie Jochild; written November 6-8, 1998

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GINNY BATES: CAST YOUR EGGS UPON THE WATERS

(Fall 2001 newsletter cover from the Lesbian Herstory Archives)

Here's the next segment of my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. This will follow my post a day ago.

If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.

Summer 2012

The following morning, Margie arrived at the hotel to drive Chris and Sima to the train station. Myra asked Ginny to pack her things for checking out and rode with Margie. Once on the street, Margie said “Well, I didn’t believe you all were keeping it from Mom and Allie, until yesterday, when it was obvious they didn’t know.”

Myra looked startled. Margie said “I told Sima you and I were talking about it, too.” Oh, clever girl, getting Chris off the hook.

Myra said “But apparently you didn’t tell Frances you’d confided in us. It was a horrible suspicion slowly sinking in, looked like.”

“Yep, we had a screaming fight about it last night” Margie said cheerfully. “I told her I need my family, and the ones who’d come after her for revenge are out of the loop.”

Myra glanced at Chris. Interesting assessment, and not the one she’d have made.

Sima asked “Are you two okay? Is that why she didn’t come with you this morning?”

“Nah, she’s sleeping in. She’ll come say bye before everyone else goes.” After a pause, Margie added “Make-up sex” with satisfaction. Making the three older women go dull red in the cheeks. Margie giggled.


Myra said “Can I -- ask you a question?”

“You can try” said Margie.

“Is Imani hoping for more? Are you sure she doesn’t want to convince Frances to leave you for her?”

Margie looked at Myra in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know Imani well enough to be sure of anything about her. But I’m sure about Frances. She says Imani understands the situation, is cool with it. Frances is not in love with her.”

“Does she tell you in advance when she’s going to -- see Imani?” asked Chris, her voice condemning.

“Yes. It’s not often, and -- Frances’s life is completely scheduled. It has to be. And while there’s a regimen in the kitchen, the fact is, every night chaos sets in there. Hopefully controlled, creative chaos. But she says that balances out the lack of wiggle room she has in the rest of her life.” Margie paused, and added “She says in the rest of her life, I’m the chaos, the X-Factor.” She was proud of this designation.

“So Frances says, ‘I’m spending the night with Imani’, and you go, ‘Have a good time, honey’?” demanded Chris.

“First of all, she doesn’t announce it, she asks and we discuss it. Second, they don’t spend the night. They did once, because it was Imani’s birthday, but it was about as hard on Frances as it was on me and she says never again” said Margie. “It’s only a few hours, when Frances has room in her schedule and I’m okay with it.”

Myra tried to imagine crawling into bed for the afternoon with a lover besides Ginny. It sounded horrible.

Sima asked “What do you do, honey, when she’s -- when you know she’s with Imani?”

Margie sighed. “This is turning into a lot more than one question.” She pulled into the train station parking lot and engaged the emergency brake.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it any more” said Sima.

“No, I’ll answer it. The first time, I made sure I was with somebody else, too.” Margie was determinedly not looking at Myra. “I also made sure I went home smelling of it. That turned out to be a disastrous idea.” Chris snorted in disbelief. “Now, I call somebody, or I go rowing, or I take Narnia on the hike of her life. And when Frances gets home, she showers and we talk and...it’s okay. It really is.”

“Thanks for trusting us” said Myra softly. Margie finally met her eyes, and said “You were great yesterday. It felt like Xena had dropped into the room, ululating and holding her ax. Just don’t swing it at Frances.”

Not if she doesn’t hurt you thought Myra. Chris and Sima gave them goodbye hugs and walked into the station. Myra moved to the front seat.

On the drive back, Margie said “I’ve got something else to talk to you about. It’s an idea, and if you think it’s a bad one, I’m not going to do it. But I need you not to tell Mama about it if I don’t.”

Damn. Margie was going to keep exploiting this new ability to keep information from one or another mother. Myra wondered if she had things she was telling Ginny or Allie but not her. She said “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”

“There’s a clinic that just opened in New York for women who are poor or don’t have insurance to get help them with fertility. You know, all the expensive procedures that usually only white yuppie women can afford to help them get pregnant. And at first I was going to ask the Feminist Fund to send them some money. But I got to thinking...I really don’t want to be pregnant, or give birth. I just don’t. Allie says you understand that.” Margie looked at her sideways.

“I do. I might have forced myself to go through with it if Ginny couldn’t, and maybe I’d have changed my mind. Can’t say.” Myra wondered where this was going.

“The thing is...I have these Bates eggs in me. No matter what Mama believes of me, I want our line to go on as much as she does. So, I checked into donating my eggs to the clinic. They’re not taking donated eggs per se, they’re only transferring them from women at the clinic or through another service. But then I called an egg donation service here in Portland, and -- I could undergo treatment to increase my own production, get them harvested for six months, sell those to the service and send that money to the clinic. It’s an obscene amount of money.”

Myra had too many ideas in her head at once to make a sentence. She was stammering, and Margie cut in with “The service I talked to, they have high standards for placement of the eggs, I mean our kind of standards, not just het or white or, you know. And -- I can register, and if my eggs get used and turn into a pregnancy, in 18 years that kid can track me down, if he or she wants to.”

Myra said “Oh my god.”

“It’s kinda like how you got a sperm donor, only in the other direction. I’d be sending Bates genes out into the world, and eventually we might even get to have them join the family, but I don’t have to do the mothering. Plus, it makes money I can give to help women who do want to mother. I think it’s a very cool idea. But I can’t decide how Mama will feel about it. For that matter, how do you feel about it?”

Myra stared at Margie. “I will never, as long I live, be able to predict where you mind goes” she said hoarsely. She swallowed and added “I think it’s brilliant. And your mother will fall down on the ground and weep with joy.”

Margie was glowing. “Okay, good. Don’t tell her yet, I have to work out more of the details. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass, the actual process will play yahtzee with my hormones and they said it would hurt, but -- Frances says she’s looking forward to me as the fertility goddess.”

They had reached the hotel again. Myra said “I need a Coke. Let’s see if they’re at breakfast.”

That night they were in the beach house, eating fresh crab and chilled watermelon. It was cooler than usual this year, and all of them were ready for whatever constituted a real vacation. For Ginny and Allie, this meant art from dawn to dusk. Margie went out in the kayak they had stored in the new shed and Myra sat on shore, watching her and trying to come up with a new book idea. Carly cooked and slept, Gillam slept and cooked, and Edwina bent over the laptop to research genealogy until she was so stiff she could hardly stand.

The third day, Myra’s cell rang. When she answered, it was Liza.

“Hey, I got you. I’ve been trying to call Ginny for two days, I’ve got a contact for a possible gallery show in DC but her phone goes direct into voice mail” said Liza.

“She must’ve left it unplugged and the battery’s run down, that happens. I’ll get her for you” offered Myra.

“No, wait, I’ll talk to you first. How’s it going?”

Myra filled her in on the latest news. Liza asked, “What are you writing these days?”

“Not much. I’m casting about for a new set of characters, I think. No pun intended.”

Liza said “You ought to write the history of lesbian-feminism. Somebody needs to do it, besides all the academics who never set foot at a riot or lived in a collective. You could put together the real story, at least for the West Coast.”

Myra closed her eyes against the dizziness that hit her. “My god, you’re absolutely right. It’s what I was born to do.”

“You have access to the non-white crowd, the genuinely working class rather than downwardly mobile until the trust fund kicks in” said Liza. “Plus you can out all the owning class women who were too scared to come clean.”

“Which never included you, my hera” said Myra. “Let’s collaborate, you could do the East Coast. And I can manage Texas as well.”

“Oh, I don’t collaborate” said Liza. “Not ever. Either it’s my name on the door, or I’m a cheerleader.”

“Well, then...will you cheerlead enough to review an outline if I send you one?” asked Myra.

“Sure. But you have to do all the work yourself. I’ll give you thumbs up or down, that’s about it. I’ve got teenagers, you know” said Liza.

“I pray for you daily” laughed Myra. “Wow, you’ve started a prairie fire in my head. Okay, let me hand you off to Ginny, she’s here in the kitchen looking at me quizzically.”

Myra went to find Ginny’s cell and plugged it in. She called the housesitter to make sure everything was okay at home, then pulled out a legal pad and a pencil, taking one end of the table while Gillam shucked oysters at the other.

The rest of the trip was a blur for her. Edwina offered her the laptop, but Myra said she planned better on paper. By the time they flew home, she had 56 pages of outline and notes. She missed seeing the school of dolphins who cavorted with Margie in the distant surf one day, and left all the cooking up to the boys. When she got home, she went straight to her desk and turned on her computer to type in her work thus far. Beebo sat patiently by the cubby which held the webbing toys she had brought back from Anacortes. Ginny finally noticed him, pulled one out and threw it toward the kitchen, laughing at his wild leap after it. But Myra was already buried again in what her family was now calling “The Epic”.

She surfaced a week later for shabbos. She was drained and beginning to be frightened by the amount of work to which she had committed herself. She helped Gillam grill burgers and steaks, and let Carly create a new exercise regimen for her on the machine upstairs. She was able to enjoy her friends’ conversation without making mental notes. That night, when she and Ginny went to bed, Ginny said “Welcome back. I was starting to worry you might miss this entire summer of having young folk in the house again, a brief respite from our empty nest world.”

“Have you talked to Margie this week?”

“Yeah. She’s tired. She’s taking a full load both summer sessions, she’s determined to finish her Master’s this time next year. How on earth did we come by such driven children?” They laughed together.

Two nights later, Carly and Gillam went out dancing after their classes with Davonn and friends. Chris and Sima stopped by a bounty of baby asparagus from a friend’s garden and organic chicken livers. Myra looked at the livers and said “Oh, and we’ve got fresh ricotta! I can try that recipe Frances told me about.” Ginny went to the back yard to harvest chard and onions, Sima helped Myra make pasta dough and roll it out for ravioli, and Chris sauteed the livers in butter, added onion and chard, and chopped it fine when halfway cooked and cooled. The liver chop was mixed with ricotta and used to stuff extra-large ravioli. Sima steamed the asparagus while Ginny made a tomato and broccoli salad, Myra cooked the ravioli, and Chris grated romano to sprinkle on top, then set the table.

After two bites of the ravioli, Ginny said “This is now my official favorite dish.”

“Me too” said Sima. “It’s like Vilna meets Umbria.”

Chris said “I’ve got another interview lead for you, Myra. A Lenape dyke who lived in New York City in the early 70s. She’s gonna want the right to edit your piece about her before signing consent, though.”

“My agent is dropping kittens out her ass about all these consents” said Myra. “But tell her okay, and send us an e-mail with each other’s info.”

“Why is Mai upset about you letting people review their work?” said Ginny.

“It’s not the upper class way” said Myra. “I’m supposed to come up with brilliance that surpasses all the petty objections of folks who were actually there, and screw them if they disagree. Plus, on a practical level, it means later stages of editing may require additional consent. She keeps warning me this book may not make any money at all.”

“Which, again, leaves you the perfect woman to write it” said Sima. “You don’t need the money, and you’re not after academic cred, and you’re famous already. You can afford to tell the truth as it was, however unpopular that is with the boys.”

Myra liked this assessment. She said to Ginny, “The fact is, once I start traveling for research, the costs will add up to more than any advance I get.”

“Lesbian Herstory Archives?” asked Chris.

“Yes, and Mazer in SoCal, whatever San Fran is calling it’s archive now, Columbus, Cornell, DC, Chicago, ALFA in Atlanta, one or two in Florida, Bloomington, Philly, uh -- what am I forgetting?” said Myra.

“You talked about Canada and maybe the U.K.” said Ginny. “I’m looking forward to those trips.”

Chris said “You going with her on her research? As stenographer?”

“No, I’ll stay at the hotel and paint” said Ginny sharply.

“But not every trip, so if one or both of you wants to sign on for a jaunt, let me know” said Myra. Ginny’s face was unsmiling. “For sure Allie’s going to DC and Philly with me.”

“Are you trying to get first-person interviews with women in all those locations, in addition to the archive research?” asked Sima.

“No, I can interview over the phone, thanks to my built-in recorder. The problem is, I discovered it’s taking me four hours to transcribe a one-hour minidisk” said Myra. “And I have to have written text, I can’t do without it.”

“Myra, I told you, we’ll hire a transcriptionist. There are talented lesbians out there who’d love to get paid well for this work” said Ginny.

“More expense” said Myra.

“I can’t believe Liza isn’t jumping at the chance to do this with you” said Sima.

“Well, she’s got kids at home” reminded Myra. “As it is, I’m feeling antsy about leaving our two here in the Northwest with only the throbbing excess of older women they feel burdened by. Plus, she’s painting and running a gallery. I don’t know where she finds her energy. Plus, she’s owning class and not guilty about it.”

“What does that mean?” said Ginny.

“One of the values owning class kids are raised with is a sense of entitlement. Which, when they work through the crap attached to it, is a great thing to have. Liza’s not afraid of being in charge. If she’s going to heavily invest her creativity, she’d rather have her name on it. I get it” said Myra.

“What about you? Are you okay with being in charge?” asked Chris.

“Not all the time” admitted Myra. “Since so many of the women I’m interviewing are working class or raised poor, I’m getting challenged on it all the time -- not just with the demand for editing rights, although that’s one symptom of working class distrust. We don’t want others putting words in our mouth, or taking credit for our ideas, but we don’t want one of us rising up too far, either, getting full of herself. It’s one of the problems in the Second Wave that I have to cover, that working class ethic. Which was often exploited by insecure, dishonest owning class women pretending to be downwardly mobile, or even more savagely by middle class women determined to make sure everything was ‘nice’. It’s the middle class women I have the hardest time with, personally. Especially the ones who want to chop the legs out from under natural leaders who happen to be owning class -- middle class women have an imperative to climb up the class ladder, but it has to look like it’s based on merit and being concerned for others. That deceit is the hardest of all for me to recognize and work around.”

Chris leaned over for a high-five, and Myra gave it to her. Sima glanced at Ginny, but said “I know what you mean.”

Myra continued “It’s different when it’s a woman of color who’s reached the middle class or climbed into academia. She’s still not considered an automatic member of the club, and that difference keeps her able to communicate on a different level, usually. Like Edwina.”

“And what about Jews?” said Ginny, with a slight chill in her voice. “Where do middle-class Jewish dykes fit in your constellation?”

“Oh, sometimes like women of color” said Myra, helping herself to more asparagus. “Sometimes not. Depends on how urban they were, how early and in what clique they came out -- Socialists can be incredibly elitist, in a perverse sort of way -- and, of course, the old class divide, Russian or German Ashkenazi.”

Ginny said suddenly “The only time I ever heard the word ‘kike’ was from my mother’s family, in Richmond. They were talking about Jews at their Temple who were of Russian descent. I remember my mother laughing with them, hard, and even though I was only six or seven, I knew they meant people like Daddy. I hated them in that instant.”

Now Sima leaned over and shared a high-five with Ginny. Ginny’s face relaxed and they kept talking.



© 2008 Maggie Jochild.

(Thanks to Liza for all the conversations that enabled me to write this section.)

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GINNY BATES: MAMA LEONE

Here's the next segment of my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. This will follow my post of two days ago.

If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.

Late May 2012

They left for Olympia on Friday around noon, after Myra's second visit with Nancy. Ginny was driving, and Myra could tell she wanted to ask about her session. Myra said "Chris told me she thinks I'm forgetting pieces of working class reality."

Ginny turned sharply to look at her before refocusing on the road.

"What are you forgetting?"

"I forgot to ask". They laughed, briefly. Myra said "It occurred to me that maybe I could ask you. Maybe you've seen some changes."

Treating Ginny like an ally instead of the opposition was always a good idea. Myra saw Ginny's brain engage. "Was she referring to you finding about her and Allie, or about me, or something else?"

Myra said "Well, she had just commented on my pulling out cash to make my break, and asked what I would've done if I hadn't had the money handy."

"What would you have done?"


"It never occurred to me. I still don't know. So yeah, I guess the fact that I knew I could buy relocation is definitely not working class. The impulse to bolt might be, but the means of accomplishing it vary according to resource."

"Myra -- you were that sure I couldn't be someone you talked to?" Ginny wasn't blaming.

"Not at that moment. But, that wasn't the main thing." Myra told Ginny about her mother's defections, how she had worked on her childhood abandonment with Nancy. She added "Plus...In the beginning was me and Allie, you know. We were the original rock that got built on. Then came Chris, and it was me who found her, who saw someone worth spending a lifetime with. Allie agreed pretty much right away. But now I wonder if sex played a role in her decision to add Chris on to us. And if it was partly sex...well, with my background, it makes me jumpy."

Ginny said slowly, "Because why Chris and not you?"

"No. Turns out, it's because I think Chris deserves better than that. She deserved to be chosen for reasons other than fucking. I don't want to ever see her whored out again, even by herself." Myra's tone was fierce.

"Myra, angel, do you really think Allie would be capable of that?"

"She was still drinking, Ginny. You -- didn't know her then" said Myra.

"Then I think you have to ask her" said Ginny gently. “You’ll believe what she tells you point-blank.”

"Yeah, I figured that out this morning” said Myra.

“I have an appointment with Nancy on Monday afternoon, but I wonder if you’re ready to go with me, have a session together.” Ginny’s eyes were on the road, and her tone didn’t sound evasive. Myra said “All right.”

“I’ll think about your class question, Myra. I’m glad to be included. When I notice something, I’ll tell you. And maybe we can take that to Nancy, too.”

Myra reached over and squeezed Ginny’s knee.

Ginny said “I talked with Margie while you were out. She and Frances have arranged a graduation party at Simpatico, catered by them and in their dining hall, the afternoon after her commencement. There’s simply not room at their place, and their landlady is pretty uptight about their using the backyard.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Myra pulled out her cell, searched the number for Simpatico, and asked to speak with the manager. She arranged to pay for the graduation party, insisting it was their gift to Margie. She added “Tell all the staff we’re paying double wages for that day.”

When she hung up, Ginny said “What else are we giving her? She’s very attached to The Cerebellum, but we could make them a two-car family.”

Myra did not want to give Frances additional means of leaving Margie. She covered with “Gas is so prohibitive, they’re doing fine with public transit, and besides, our extra gift should be for Margie alone, don’t you think?”

“Well, the other idea I had is somewhat shared, too: Have you noticed they’ve not bought any new furniture? Everything they have is old, almost as old as the stuff you had when we got together, though no milk crates, thank god.” They laughed together. “The kitchen is up to date, but that’s it.”

Myra said “Are they struggling financially, you think?”

Ginny hesitated, then said “I still have access to Margie’s trust fund statements online. I went and looked. The fact is, they are saving, Myra. As much as they can.”

Myra decided to ignore Ginny’s invasion of privacy, because she might have done the same thing. “Wow. Our Margie is saving? I’m bowled over.”

“For the restaurant, no doubt” said Ginny with mixed satisfaction. “I got to thinking -- that place of theirs is tiny, and their landlady has turned out to be a pill, which is probably why she charges such cheap rent for that location, she can’t keep people in there because of her complaints and intrusions. But they make no mention of moving. I’ve seen no new clothes on Margie, either, aside from shoes and an occasional T-shirt or jeans. So I was thinking about getting her a hefty gift certificate to Ikea, maybe, or Homo Depot. To buy stuff for their house.”

“Add another one for clothes, and let her have a real spree” agreed Myra. “Old Navy, or the Gap?”

Ginny laughed. “They can afford those places, honey. Leave it to me.”

After a few seconds, Myra said “Is this one of those instances Chris meant? Buying a gift certificate instead of, I don’t know, making something for her? And leaving it to you?”

“I doubt it. What Chris notices runs deeper than that” said Ginny.

In Olympia, they found books and papers all over the boys’ dinette table and couch.

“Finals” said Carly grimly.

“Okay, you two keep studying. We’ll cook and clean, and visit when you need a break.” Gillam hugged them both and returned to the desk in his room.

Beebo sat on the kitchen counter while Myra began making casseroles and soups to be heated quickly over the coming week. It was apparently his accustomed right to watch from this spot, and she stopped trying to shoo him down. Ginny gathered laundry and vacuumed, although the place was generally kept clean by the two young men. After dinner, Carly and Gillam insisted they had to take a breather, opting to watch DVD’s of the new Aaron Sorkin series. Both of them fell asleep half an hour into it. Myra and Ginny watched, absorbed, to the end. They woke the boys long enough to say goodnight before heading for their motel.

Myra stopped to buy almond and chocolate croissants for breakfast the next morning. The pool was empty, and when the boys returned to their grind, Ginny and Myra went for a public swim, frolicking in an unseemly manner for the mothers of serious swots. Over lunch, Gillam confirmed they were both hoping to live in Seattle for the summer -- he had been accepted at Read Write, and Carly’s PT program transfer had been cleared. Myra sneaked Beebo a crumb of bacon and leaned under the table to whisper “See? I told you.”

“But we have exactly one day before the end of finals and when we’re supposed to leave for Margie’s graduation” said Carly. “We have to move out of here, which means renting a truck for all our stuff, but we have two cars, too. And you said we’re flying out of Portland for the Gulf Coast trip, right? Only five days this year, because of our schedules.”

“Frances can’t come at all” said Myra.

“You can rent a truck with a tow-bar on the back, pull your Miata behind it” suggested Ginny. “It’s only 70 miles, the increased gas usage will be less than if you drive back and forth twice.”

Carly got up and made a note on the refrigerator message board.

A week later, when Carly and Gillam arrived out front, already sweaty and crabby, Beebo burst from his carrier as soon as Myra undid the grill and shot upstairs, where they could hear his gallop down the hall, around the circuit of the two bedrooms and the connecting bath, and down toward them again. He zoomed toward the back and thumped through the pet door exuberantly, but came to a screeching hall ten feet away from a new Annie Gagliardi sculpture by the pet cemetery.

It was a life-sized gila monster in already-rusting iron and black steel. Beebo’s back arched skyward, and his fur puffed out comically. Myra left hauling of boxes and furniture to young bodies and went out to sit on the deck for Beebo’s performance. She could hear his almost subvocal growling. Subsiding to a belly crouch, he circled the intruder with slow-motion stealth. Once behind it, he made his way forward and finally slapped it violently on the head. With a shriek, he retreated to wash his paw and glower. Ginny came to join Myra, who explained “He says it’s a dinosaur and we’ve been unbelievably thoughtless in allowing it to take up residence in his territory.”

“I wish it was articulated and could move in the breeze. It’d give him a coronary” laughed Ginny.

“I’m looking forward to what Narnia makes of it.”

“Poor little Juju, it would have ruined the sanctuary of the back yard for her permanently” mused Ginny.

“I still miss her at least once a day” said Myra.

“And Alice” returned Ginny. They smiled together.

Once again, it was eight of them the following day on the train to Portland. Beebo sat in the living room window, dismayed, as they climbed into a cab for the station. The housesitter who came every day was not nearly adequate, in his opinion.

Margie met them at the station in Portland, buoyant and with a new hairstyle. They filled a cab plus the Cerebellum for the hop to their motel. Frances was already at work, doing prep for that evening’s meal. Margie had made them reservations, however, at a downtown seafood place with an art deco dining room and, she swore, creme brulee that would bring on the Rapture. It was a long, flavorful, raucous meal whose final bill, intercepted and paid by Ginny, later made Myra say “I definitely don’t have to worry about Margie having class conflict inside her, do I?”

The next morning, Margie and Frances came to the motel coffee shop for breakfast. Myra wondered if she would have a negative reaction seeing Frances, but was relieved to find she did not: She liked Frances, who was especially attentive to Margie right now, radiating pride and shared accomplishment. Margie announced to the table that she had written “Kiss my grits” across her bare ass in marker and intended to moon the audience after her diploma was safely in hand. She managed to horrify everyone over 40, who believed it without hesitation. Carly howled at their gullability so much he had to drink water to stop choking.

They returned to the motel to dress. Margie and Frances had brought their finery and borrow a bathroom to change. Patty and Thea arrived in their car, but they still needed to call a taxi to transport all of them to Kaul Auditorium at Reed. Margie gave last kisses and rushed to join her classmates. Frances stood at the entrance with Myra and Ginny to welcome Margie’s guests, while the rest of the family went to save seats. Gillam had his Leica and Allie was running the video camera.

Several of Margie’s old friends from Olympia arrived, including Truitt and his fiancee. Truitt was thickening through the chest and waist, and had a mustache that Myra forced herself not to giggle about. He said Pat was planning to attend, as well, and Myra saw Ginny stiffen. She leaned near her to whisper “Do you want to go warn Patty?”

“She’s got Thea and she’s a strong woman” said Ginny. “But I don’t want her sitting with us. Pat, I mean.”

“Me neither” said Myra.

Rimbaud also showed up, looking elegant and relaxed. After he went to join their group in the auditorium, Frances said “He and Margie have stayed in touch. He comes down here to see her about once a month.”

“Well, I find that commendable” said Ginny. “He graduated yesterday, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. I think he’s planning to return to New Zealand” said Frances expressionlessly. Myra thought Good.

They met and re-met several of Margie’s friends from Portland. Myra was tensely waiting for someone to be introduced as Imani, but apparently she was not coming to this event. When they went to rejoin the others, Myra noticed Carly, ever the sacrificial lamb, was sitting next to Patty. On his other side were Truitt and his date, and Pat was at the very end of the row, next to the chatty airhead Truitt was planning to marry. Myra waved at Carly and blew him a kiss. He grabbed his crotch and shook it with a swagger, sending her into silent hysterics.

Myra had kept secret from everyone except Frances the fact that, despite her transfer and extra load, she was graduating summa cum laude. Ginny rose to her feet and screamed when this was announced, and the rest belatedly joined her. Myra was thrilled at the size of Margie’s cheering section.

They hung around afterward for a while, Myra feeling glad to be on her feet: The folding chairs had been too close to the ground and not wide enough for her ass. They carpooled to Simpatico, and Myra whispered to Ginny “We need to direct seating, follow my lead”. She gave Frances and Margie places beside another in the middle of the long table, with Ginny on Margie’s left, then Patty and Thea next to Ginny. Across from them were Allie, Edwina, Sima and Chris. Next to Myra, she placed Gillam, and she motioned to Carly. She pointed to an empty table behind them and said loudly “Let’s stack gifts over there, shall we? Will you be in charge of gathering them from people?” He nodded as she whispered “Take the chair next to Gillam at the end, let Pat fend for herself, we’ve got her sequestered from your mom.” He gave her a look of appreciation.

Rimbaud wound up next to Chris, as close as he could get to Margie. Myra wished him luck with trying to converse with Chris.

Once they were all at the table, Frances stood and tapped her glass for attention. She made a lovely speech praising Margie, gazing down at her the whole time. She then announced she had created a new dish in Margie’s honor, lobster gnocchi in walnut butter with fresh peas and baby carrots. It was not only today’s main course, it was being added to Simpatico’s menu under the name “Meglio del Mare Marjorita”.

It was a superb present. Margie kissed Frances fervently, tears standing in her eyes. Myra had no doubt it would be the first item appearing on the menu of Frances’s eventual restaurant. Ginny found Myra’s hand under the table and gripped it tightly.

When Frances sat down, the wait staff began serving, carrying platters in from the kitchen. Still no sign of Imani, though the head chef had come out to say hello to Ginny and Myra. Much to-do was offered about Margie’s dish, and Margie beamed as if she had made it herself. Myra noticed wine refills seemed to be frequent at Pat’s end of the table. She murmured to Gillam “If she gets drunk and causes any kind of tsurris, you and I will quietly walk her to the door, all right?” He nodded.

But their end of the table was having a blast, the aunties lavishing attention on Margie who soaked it all in effortlessly. When the main meal was over and plates were being removed, Frances stood again. “The dessert Margie selected is dried cherry cobbler with pistachio gelato” she announced. “Before that is served, however, I’d like to introduce to you all my esteemed coworkers, the world-class cooks of Simpatico.”

People in white coats streamed from the kitchen, most of them with faces shiny from effort and perspiration. Frances walked around the table to join them and introduce each. She did it according to strict kitchen hierarchy, and the newest addition was thus the last: Imani. Frances held Imani’s hand in the air as she said her name, but kept hold once it was lowered.

She was young, at least two years younger than Margie -- she must be very good to have landed even a scut job here so early. She was taller than diminutive Frances, slender, wide-shouldered, and creamy black. Her hair was cut in a Grace Jones crewcut, her hands were square and powerful, and everything about her screamed dyke. Myra saw Allie and Edwina warm to her instantly, which Chris and Sima turned back toward Margie.

If Myra had had antennae, they’d have been quivering. The wait staff began serving dessert, and the head chef returned to stand beside Myra, saying “I’ve been reading your blog, love it. Where on earth do you get all your ideas?”

She wanted to snipe at him “I steal them, don’t you know what Google is for?” Imani was crossing to Allie and Edwina, still linked to Frances, and gushing “I grew up on the Podinqo books, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you!” Allie and Edwina made room for Imani to stand between them, and Ginny leaned across the table to join in their conversation -- lured by the hint of young striking lesbian, no doubt. Myra’s chef barnacle was rattling on about how he’d thought about putting some of his stories down on paper, he believed they might do very well, only he was so busy, you see. Everybody seems to think writing is a skill like riding a bike, just do it a couple of time and bobs-yer-uncle, you’re Stephen King she thought. She wasn’t paying close attention, so when he said “Maybe I could send you some scribblings some time, you could tell me what you think?”, she broke all protocol by answering “Sure, that’d be fine” before standing and excusing herself to scoot down and sit in the chair next to Margie.

She pressed her side against Margie, who looked perfectly normal unless you knew her very well, and said “Have I ever told you my Mama’s favorite joke?”

Margie looked at her with relief and said “The pig one, you mean?”

“No, that’s my favorite. My mother’s was interactive. She’d come in from going to town, shopping, and remark ‘I ran into Mrs. So-and-So at the Piggly Wiggly, and you know what she said to me?’ One of us would obligingly answer, ‘No, what?’ Mama would say, with extreme indignation, ‘She called me a two-bit homewrecker!’ We knew our part, so one of us would then say ‘Oh, no! What did you do?’ Mama would drawl, ‘I hit her with my bag of quarters.’”

Margie simply exploded into laughter, as did Chris and Sima who had been listening with increasing interest. It brought every other conversation in the room to a halt. Myra was consumed with glee. Ginny said “What? What did you just say?” Since neither Myra nor Margie could answer, Gillam leaned behind Myra to say “She told her mother’s favorite joke.”

Ginny faced the rest of the table and said “Oh, this is a good one. Okay if I share it with them, My?”

Myra nodded, going into further paroxysms as Margie leaned against her, pounding the table with anticipation. Ginny told it well, and got a big laugh. Except for Imani, who suddenly let go of Frances’ hand and whose smile was paper-thin. After a moment, Frances made her way back around the table, and Myra gave her the chair beside Margie as they all tucked into dessert, still chuckling.

A few minutes later, Frances turned and looked steadily at Myra, her face solemn and considering. Myra winked at her, which confused Frances. Carly and Gillam began carrying gifts to Margie, and Frances focused back on her partner. It’s her day, thought Myra. She earned this.


© 2008 Maggie Jochild.

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HAPPY 59TH BIRTHDAY, LIZA COWAN!

Today is the birthday of my dear friend, trail-blazer and artist extraordinaire, Liza Cowan. It's not possible for me to succinctly describe the effect she's had on my life. But -- I've been mentioning her in posts for a while, so I can refer you to those, beginning with my birthday biography of her last year at Maoist Orange Cake.

Other homage and appreciation can be found at:
When It Changed
Broad Cast for 2 January 2008
Happy Anniversary, Liza!
Broad Cast Solstice 2007

plus mentions in my novel Ginny Bates, located at:
Date Myra Shows Her Face
Setting Up House
Meeting Liza Cowan
The Shopping Spree at PSAW
The Show at PSAW
Entropy
The Annotated Ginny Bates, Chapter One

Liza, a cyber adept, maintains THREE blogs: One for her art gallery, Pine Street Art Works; one for her personal art portfolio, Liza Cowan; and her latest, See Saw, about "Art, collecting, advertising, retail, architecture, public space, products, people. Wherever the ride goes." Her latest posts, about refrigerator advertising, are astute commentary on manipulation, hunger and need, masculinity/femininity, and how we got from There to Here. Please hop over to See Saw to wish her a Happy Happy, or do so in the comments here.

I dearly love you, Lize. For your vision, your tenacity, your self-love, your mothering, your eye, your belief in women, your insistence on constant growth, your abiding sense of humor, your brain as big as mine...the list is endless. May you live forever.

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LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUND-UP, 27 MAY 2008

Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.

































Two riffs on the same image:

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