by Ana Good
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Get real.”
“Maybe if we tried cleaning out the hose and putting it back in.” Candice shoved two fingers inside the mesh hose apparatus and rimmed the interior vigorously.
“What is it with you? Why not ask for help? You can’t do everything yourself. Life’s not like that.”
“Mine is.”
“Yeah, well maybe that’s why you’re in this hellhole.”
“What does that mean?”
Dirk shrugged. “You’re the one with the medical degree. You figure it out. I’m just a dumb jock.”
“You’re talking about those twelve steps? Aren’t you?”
“Sorta.”
“You think I need some sort of Higher Power to fix the vacuum cleaner.”
“That or a mechanic.”
“You’re butch. Fix this thing?”
“Nope. There’s lots of stuff I can’t do. Same for you. Why not just admit that? Look, you may be a doctor but seems to me your skills are limited. You do ass lifts. Nose jobs. Maybe, just maybe, these old psycho chicks know a thing or two about how heads are screwed on. Maybe they’re right about asking for help; about turning our lives over to a Higher Power. Why not give it a try? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Candice bit her tongue. She knew the answer deep in her heart. To ask for help would mean she was failing. And failure was not an option. Never had been. It riled her even more that a jock with a wonder ass was the one pointing this out to her.
“You know,” she said, shooting Dirk a cold look, “you’re a lot cuter when you keep your mouth shut.”
19. Daniel Boone Was a Dyke
Storm trudged through the deep snowdrifts in the backyard, a yellow-handled ax slung over her left shoulder.
“You know how to handle that thing, love?” Poppy inquired as she trudged beside Storm, using her teeth to pull on a pair of insulated mittens.
Storm snorted, icy breath curling out her nose. “Think I can figure it out.”
“How come I don’t get to swing the ax? Seems like the bloody fun part to me.”
The pair stopped in front of a cord of stacked birch logs. It was their job to chop the rounds for tomorrow’s firewood. Storm peeled back the hood on her parka. The snow had stopped and the sun spun like a thin dime in the afternoon sky. “To be honest, Poppy, I don’t see any of this as fun.”
“It’s sorta fun. Like pioneers. You know, like that Yank Daniel Boone.”
Storm peeled off her gloves and clutched the ax with both hands. “You think every American is a pioneer who wears a coonskin cap?”
“Don’t be silly. Some of you are cowboys.”
Storm roared with laughter. Poppy wasn’t as ditzy as she let on. The girl had substance. After rolling a butt onto the chopping block, Storm backed up and took a swing. She missed, slashing a thick hole in the snow. Black dirt and blue soapstone bled through the gash.
“Jolly good job, Danny,” muttered Poppy.
“You try, Pop Tart.” Storm swung the ax into Poppy’s hands and stepped back.
Poppy circled the chopping block. She stopped, studied the angle, and circled again.
“What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks are you doing?” raged Storm. “We’ve only got an hour to get this done. No wood, no fire. Babe was clear about that. And I hate being cold.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m studying angles.”
“Angles?”
“Yes, angles.” Poppy planted both booted feet firmly in the trodden snow. She raised the ax and let it fly. She missed the chopping block entirely. Losing her balance, she landed face first in the snow.
Storm clutched Poppy around the waist from behind and hefted her up out of the snow.
The pop star struggled to her feet, the tip of her nose frosted in snow.
“That was impressive,” chided Storm. “Think you might actually hit the log this time?”
Poppy made a face. “You think you’re the only competent one?”
“Most of the time.”
“Well, get over yourself. You may make a couple of million a year but I’m worth five times that. Plus girls everywhere cream their panties when I take the stage.” Poppy thrust her chest out.
Storm rolled her eyes. “Well, Ms. Tart, I’m as famous as you, except I report hard news, not trot around a stage with my ass hanging out.”
“Seems to me you liked my ass just fine when it was hanging in your direction.”
“I was desperate. Sobriety does that to a girl.”
“Sod off!” said Poppy, and this time when she turned to chop wood she scored. Splinters rained through the air.
Sobered by the petite pop star’s swing (and dead-on accuracy), Storm fell quiet. She waited until Poppy had split more than a dozen logs before beginning to gather the wood. She studied the pop star’s wiry body as it writhed and lunged, biting the hard wood into ever smaller pieces. Storm would never have thought that a femme fluff like Poppy could plow through an arduous task like chopping firewood.
But Poppy was no fluff. More like a wiry English lumberjack with a closet full of lace teddies.
When Poppy had chopped enough wood to fill the sled, she threw the ax aside and plopped down in the snow. Sweat streamed down her face. She used a mitten to wipe her cheeks, then her brow. “Think that’s enough?”
Storm eyed the mountain of wood. “Yeah, unless you want to heat New York State, too.”
Poppy laughed. “Thought I’d femme out, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“No bloody maybe. You were sure. Admit it.”
Storm tossed more wood onto the sled. “Yeah. Sure. I mean, my parents left me when I was a kid. Now, anyone says they’ll do something I figure I’ll get more of the same. No offense, but I much prefer to paddle my own canoe. That way I always make it to shore.”
Poppy halted gathering the wood. “That’s bloody awful. Your parents left you?”
Storm shrugged. “To me it’s just normal.”
“It’s not normal, Storm. I mean, my mum is a pain in the bum. But no matter what I do she’d never leave me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yep.”
Ignoring Poppy, Storm grabbed the rope tied to the front of the sled. Throwing the rope over her shoulder, she struggled to tug the sled toward the house.
The sled was so heavy it bogged down in the snow. Storm struggled with the sled, determined to slide it back to the house without assistance. But Storm’s impatient jerks and kicks only caused the wood to tumble to the front, making the sled bite down harder into the snow. “Crap!”
Poppy stood next to Storm. “Slow learner, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Frustrated, Storm straddled the sled of wood. She fumbled in her parka pocket for a cigarette.
“Help, love. You need my help.”
“You know, you’re starting to get on my nerves.” Storm took her time lighting the stubby cigarette. She blew smoke circles in the frosty air. Then toward Poppy.
Poppy stood her ground. “Are you going to ask me to help you with this sled?”
“Would that please you?” Another smoke ring.
“No, but it would make it possible for us to get the wood to the house.”
“How practical of you.”
Poppy sighed. “I think part of what we’re supposed to learn here is how to ask for help.”
“That what you think?” Another frosty smoke ring.
“Yes.”
Storm crushed her cigarette deep into the snow with the toe of her combat boot. Poppy was right, of course, they’d never get the sled to the farmhouse unless they worked together. Babe had battered into their heads that morning that they needed to admit they weren’t God; that they had issues; needed help.
Babe’s sweatshirt that morning had read: “There’s a God, and You’re Not Her.”
Storm rolled her eyes. “Fine. Maybe I need … help.”
&
nbsp; Poppy’s face lit up. She grabbed the front of the sled while motioning for Storm to take the back.
Together, they lifted the heavy sled out of its slushy rut. Like magic, the sled slid cleanly toward the farmhouse.
20. The Dyke Next Door
Wee Gee crawled into the cramped broom closet and yanked out a pair of dented metal buckets, swish brushes, and a bottle of mountain-rain-scented bleach. She shoved one bucket and set of cleaning tools across the floor to Thumper, who stood looking glum, hands tucked under her armpits.
“You know how to use this stuff? How to clean?” asked Wee Gee.
“Sure,” Thumper sniffled. “Grew up on a dairy farm. Did all the chores.”
Wee Gee and Thumper had been assigned to clean the bathrooms.
Wee Gee stuffed her hands into a pair of long yellow-rubber gloves that hugged her forearms and Thumper followed suit. “You grew up here in Vermont?”
“Just over the hill. Northeast Kingdom,” replied Thumper.
“Kingdom?”
“That’s what folks call the northeast corner of Vermont. The French fur trappers called it that a long time ago, back when the French claimed that part of Vermont. Not a lot of people up in that corner of Vermont even today. Nice. Quiet.”
The two women traipsed upstairs, entering Wee Gee’s room first. Thumper fell quiet. Wee Gee turned to her as they entered the bathroom. “Not much for chitchat, are you?”
Thumper shrugged. “Leave that to my sister. She likes being around people more than me.”
Wee Gee rolled her eyes. “Girls, certainly.”
“Yeah. That’s true.”
“How you want to do this?” Wee Gee asked.
“Dunno.”
“How about I do one bathroom, you do the next?”
“Cool.”
Wee Gee sloshed bleach into the toilet and scrubbed as Thumper perched on the edge of the sink vanity and watched.
“You like doing the Olympic thing?” Wee Gee asked as she flipped down the lid on the first toilet and inspected her work.
“It’s okay.”
“Okay? Girl, you’re an Olympic medalist and all you can say is it’s okay?”
“It was my sister’s idea. I mean, she started the snowboarding thing. To pick up chicks, mostly. I sorta went along.”
“And the steroids?”
“Accident. Sort of. We needed money to get to the snowboarding events out West and our dad is dead. Our mom, she stills runs the family dairy farm. We didn’t have any money and they’d only give prize money and a free ride to the winners. We had a coach we ran into in upstate New York. Uncle Jerry, we called him, though he wasn’t really related to us. He started giving us these injections. Vitamins, he said.”
“Vitamins? Girl, you believed that?”
“We were, like, fourteen at the time. Fresh off the farm. We believed adults. I mean, we were kinda raised like that. Church. Respect for your elders. That sort of thing.” Thumper ran a rubber-gloved hand across her blonde buzz cut. “We kinda suspected something was funny because like we both grew, like, little mustaches. Then muscles started popping out on our chests, but the coach said it was okay. Normal for athletes our age.”
Wee Gee eyed Thumper. “Church? Your mama know about you and your sister?”
“The ’roids?”
“No, the girls.”
“Yeah. Sure. I mean, we’ve always liked girls. Like, in second grade we both had girlfriends. Gave them valentines. Let ’em have the Twinkies out of our lunch bags. That kind of stuff.” Thumper rested her chin in the cup of her rubber-coated hand.
“No one told you not to do that?”
“Nah. I mean, it didn’t really become an issue until we started living in the Olympic training camp. About half the jock girls are queer. But the other half, they really don’t like the whole queer thing. They feel they have to work really hard to be accepted as feminine. The queer thing is hard on them. I mean, most guys don’t like muscle-bound chicks. And the straight chicks really want guys to like them. Just the way it is.”
Wee Gee picked up her bucket and motioned for Thumper to follow as they went into Dirk and Thumper’s room. Curious, Wee Gee turned to face Thumper. “You got a girl?”
Thumper’s cheeks flushed.
“Come on, give. Who is she? What’s she like?”
Thumper shook her head. “Never said I had a girl.”
“Don’t have to. Your face gave you away, Ms. Cherry Cheeks. Give, already. She a snowboarder?”
Thumper cracked her knuckles before grabbing the brush and vigorously rimming the toilet. “Nah.” She looked up to face Wee Gee when she was done cleaning. “Don’t like athletes all that much.”
“Society chick?”
Thumper ruffled her own hair as they headed to the next room. “Nah, that’s Dirk’s thing. She likes party girls. Me, I like the girl next door.”
“You mean the sweet type?”
“Nah, I mean the girl next door. Mary Lou. She lives on the dairy farm next to our mom in East Hardwick. Been there her whole life.”
“She know you’re sweet on her?”
“She let me kiss her once.”
“Once?”
Thumper’s face flamed. “Okay, maybe like a few times.”
“Seems to me you like this little farm girl a lot.”
“Maybe.”
Wee Gee rolled her eyes.
Picking up her bucket and heading to the next room, Thumper changed the topic. “You always been into chicks?”
“More or less. I’ve been doing the ladies since Stonewall.”
“But you had a husband?”
“We all did back in the day, honey. I mean, back in the ’60s you could land in jail for kissing a girl.”
“That must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“When did you have your first girlfriend?”
“When I was thirteen.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. She was a lot older than me. Mrs. Ruth Ruckhouse, the piano player at our church. She was giving me piano lessons. For free. Said I was gifted. One day we were working on a hymn together, “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and in the middle she put her hand atop mine and stopped me playing and reached over and kissed me full on the lips. When she was done she asked me, ‘Well, how did you like that, Ms. William Jean? William Jean, that’s my real given name, got shortened to Wee Gee by my little sister back when we were babies.’”
“Holy smokes, Wee Gee. What did you say?”
“I said I liked that just fine, ma’am.”
“Then what happened?”
“She did it again. And again. We were an item all that summer. Which, if anyone asks, is why I can’t play the piano worth diddle despite a good bit of private lesson time.”
“Then what happened?”
“Her husband. He came back from the war. Vietnam. He was like a master sergeant and he got transferred to Fort Drum, in New York. They left at the end of the summer and I never saw or heard from her again.”
“You still remember her?”
“Remember her? Honey, to this day I’m the only woman, white or black, who orgasms to church hymns.”
21. Coming Clean
Nan Goldberg eyed Betty Frump. She was trying to understand how any woman could live with so much self-righteousness and not explode. Or just get plain sick of listening to herself.
Betty was supposed to be helping Nan gather the bed sheets and other public laundry and tote them to the cellar laundry room, but instead she was reading Nan the P.C. riot act. “You don’t penetrate your woman, do you?”
“Pardon?” Nan asked, peering over a mound of flannel sheets she’d just struggled to gather into her arms.
“Penetration. You know.” Betty made a circle of her right thumb and forefinger and jabbed in her left thumb, a gesture Nan found distasteful, not at all like the real thing, at least not like she and Birge practiced it. Other women she couldn’t speak for.
Betty appeared unfazed. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why penetrate.”
Nan reflected for a moment. “Because I like it. It makes me moan.”
Betty snorted. “Imitating the patriarchy.”
“I don’t think so. Birge never had a boyfriend. She’s gay with a capital G. Came out in kindergarten.”
“Doesn’t make any difference. The culture tells us sex is phallocentric penetration.”
“I like penetration!” Nan said, feeling oddly defensive as she tossed the last load of sheets down the stairs. “In fact, I like it a lot. Don’t you?”
Frump shrugged.
“What, you’ve never had a woman deep inside you? You’re kidding, right?”
“Look, it’s up to us to re-create the experience of being womyn.”
Nan grimaced. “I don’t want to re-create anything. Life is okay with me, mostly. If you’re different you have to deal with it. Makes no difference how you’re different. The way I see it we’re all queer in one way or another.”
“And you’re completely happy with the capitalistic, phallocentric, patriarchal way you make your living?”
“Mostly.”
“So why drink?”
Nan kicked the load of laundry off the landing down the steps that led to the back cellar. She jumped onto the landing and kicked the pile downward again. Like playing soccer, a game she’d excelled at in college. Her aim, as always, was dead on. “If you must know,” she said as she scored a goal, “my father was an alcoholic.”
“Ah, see! The patriarchy at work.”
Nan snorted. “More like economics. My dad inherited wealth and kept up appearances but he was an angry drunk and reckless with money. It was hard on my mom. On everyone.” They were in the basement now and Nan, who was was stuffing sheets into the industrial-sized purple washing machine, was finding Frump an increasing irritant. Nan had worked her entire life to reclaim the family reputation and wealth, to get to where she was now, socially speaking. She had no desire to revert to a communist state.