The Big Sugarbush

by Ana Good

  And in case Frump hadn’t noticed, most of the rest of the world had given up on that silly notion, also.

  Nan Goldberg didn’t want to change the world; she wanted to be a part of the world. For the life of her she couldn’t cipher why Frump didn’t put down her arms and join with the rest of the imperfect world.

  Moreover, she was sick to death of the notion that just because she was a lesbian she should ride a bicycle to work and live inside a yurt or an earthern hut.

  Definitely not her idea of lesbianism.

  The machine loaded, Nan hauled down a box of detergent from the shelf and read the instructions to decipher how much detergent was needed for a machine the size of the thing she’d just fed. Not an easy task, considering she’d left her reading glasses upstairs and the bare-bulb light in the cellar was dim.

  “Here,” she grunted at last, thrusting the box toward Betty. “Make yourself useful. Read the instructions. How much detergent do you think we need?”

  Betty frowned as she read the label. “Can’t use this.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s loaded with antibacterial agents. Poison of the patriarchy.”

  “We have to do the laundry. I want cell phone privileges. I need cell phone privileges. Need. Understand?”

  Frump stuck the detergent box under her caftan. “Can’t use this. I forbid it. Planet Earth is our sister.”

  “All right. How are we going to finish the effing laundry?”

  Betty mused.

  Nan folded her arms. It was almost five o’clock and she’d promised Birge she’d call. “Look, I need to get this done so I can get phone time. Can’t we just move forward for the moment? Ask Babe to get us a different detergent next time?”

  “Individuals have to surrender personal privilege to help the common good.”

  “Give me that detergent.” Nan dove for the box.

  Betty blocked Nan’s advance with one thrust of her arm.

  Nan considered her options. Normally someone like Betty would be a pushover for her. She’d not risen to the pinnacle of Wall Street by letting someone like Potluck Lucy here set her personal agenda.

  “I need that freaking detergent.” She held out her hands.

  “No.”

  “You’re really starting to piss me off.” Nan’s bottom lip quivered.

  “You can’t bully me. Babe said we have to work together. Learn to ask for help. Let others assist.”

  “Fine. So you tell me how we’re going to do laundry without any freaking detergent?”

  “I have a bar of soap, upstairs. Virgin glycerin. No dyes. No perfumes. No pollutants. It’s handmade of organic materials by a collective of land mine amputees in Sudan. We can shave it down. Use that to do the wash.”

  “Fine. Get it.”

  As soon as Betty was gone, Nan grabbed the detergent box and emptied half the contents into the washing machine. She set the dial to large load with hot water and slapped shut the lid. The she raced upstairs. The grandfather clock in the foyer read twenty minutes after five. Nan, feeling frazzled, raced to Babe’s office in quest of her cell phone.

  Nan’s fingers shot across the speed-dial button as soon as Babe handed her the phone. She needed to hear Birge’s voice. She’d be okay as soon as she touched base with her partner. Birge was her anchor. If she could just reach Birge. Hear her voice.

  The cell rang for the longest time before Birge’s answering service picked up to inform Nan that Birge had gone to the Hamptons for the weekend, and would not be accepting calls until Monday at nine a.m.

  “Tell her it’s me!” cried Nan at the bland-voiced operator. “Nan Goldberg. Her partner of twenty-nine-plus years.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but Ms. Hathaway left strict instructions. No calls. Not even emergencies. You’ll have to call back Monday at nine.”

  Throwing the phone against the wall, Nan swallowed hard to keep her heart from leaping out of her throat. Something wasn’t right. Birge knew she was supposed to call. They hadn’t spoken for three days. This call ought to be special for both of them. Birge should have waited. Since when couldn’t — wouldn’t? — Birge wait a few extra minutes for a call from Nan?

  Where the hell is Birge? Where the fucking hell is my partner of all these years?

  For the first time in days, Nan craved a drink.

  Part II: Days of Wretched Reckoning

  Interlude

  Any addict will tell you the first week in rehab is the worst; that is, until the second week comes. Then the third. Well, you get my drift.

  The first week is indeed bad. But somehow the utter shock of it wraps you in insulating cotton, protecting you as you realize full force that your life has been unmanageable for quite some time.

  In truth, most addicts find relief the moment they stop hiding. The moment they publicly admit they have a problem. For most high-functioning addicts, the moment they realize there’s a God and it’s not them, relief floods into their tortured hearts.

  Then comes a moment of quiet peace.

  Unless you’re Dr. Candice Antwerp.

  At the end of the first week in rehab, everyone had managed to admit, some with more mumbling than others, that their lives had become unmanageable, and that they needed to learn new ways to handle stress.

  Everyone except Dr. Antwerp. Her response to the question “Are you an addict?” had progressed from a steely “No” to a half-whimpered “Undecided.”

  Babe finally had to accept Candice’s “undecided” as progress. She signed off on Dr. Antwerp’s insurance treatment papers, allowing her to stay another week.

  The doctor returned the favor with an icy blue stare.

  As Wee Gee carried the celebratory chocolate cake (made with stevia and gluten-free flower) into the kitchen and slid it onto the oak table, everyone clapped.

  One week sober. Now it was time for the group to begin step four: make a fearless moral inventory. Babe handed each woman a tablet of yellow paper along with a slice of cake.

  “Get to work!” she bellowed as she left them in the kitchen, eating cake, hugging one another in a congratulatory circle.

  22. Nose Out of Joint

  Candice squinted at the list of personality traits Babe had given them to study. They were supposed to start their fearless moral inventory by circling the adjectives they believed applied to themselves. Then they were supposed to hand their sheets to their assigned partners for a discussion about how those traits helped insulate them from feeling while simultaneously allowing them to hurt others.

  Candice squinted across the room at Poppy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a blazing fire. Poppy’s black ponytail was bopping up and down in time to a tune she was listening to on her iPod.

  Dr. Antwerp couldn’t hear the tune but she could follow the beat from Poppy’s head bops. Catching Poppy’s eye, she yelled across the room, “Do you think I’m a nice person?”

  Poppy pulled the sound bud from her right ear. “Definitely not, love!”

  “You could think about that statement for a moment or two.”

  “Don’t need to.” Poppy plucked the remaining headphone bud from her ear as she continued circling items about herself on her own sheet. “You’re not nice. You’re selfish. And cold. And not a little bit rude.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Don’t care to, either.”

  Candice’s brows clouded into one dark wrinkle. “Am I really that bad?”

  Looking up, and seeing the distress on Candice’s face, Poppy went to sit next to her on the sofa. “Can’t lie to you, love. You’re bloody awful. A real piece of poop.”

  “Why? Why do you say that?” The distress was evident in Candice’s voice.

  “Because it’s true. I mean, you walk around with your perfectly shaped fake little nose in the air like we all smell bad. Never a hello, mate. Never a wish for a good day.”

  “Silly social contrivances. Waste of time.”

  “Not to me. I mean, you
don’t have to play kissy-face but you could practice being pleasant. Smile every now and then. Ask a question or two. At least pretend to be interested in something other than yourself.”

  “But,” protested Candice, “I am interested. Like, in you.”

  “In me? You’re interested in me?” Poppy screwed a fingertip into her own bosom.

  “Yes. Like how is it you’ve got the guts to strut around half naked up there on stage then see all those magazine pieces about yourself plastered with those awful words: Poppy the Pussy-Licker.”

  Poppy threw back her head and roared in laughter. “It’s good they write about me. I want them talking about me. Gossip sells tunes. Big time.” She leaned down and whispered in the doctor’s ear, “Besides, love, that last part, well, it’s kinda true.”

  Dr. Antwerp stiffened.

  “See, now look, you could have laughed at that statement but instead you coiled like you was the Queen Mum and I was a fishmonger. Lighten up!”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You don’t know how to laugh?”

  “Not really.”

  “What? Your folks were missionaries or something?”

  Candice frowned. “Let’s leave them out of this, shall we?”

  “Fine by me. I’m done with my list, want to trade?”

  “I suppose.”

  The two fell quiet. Dr. Antwerp spoke first. “Your list seems okay to me. I mean, for as well as I know you.”

  Poppy had circled about a dozen terms. Some of them were traits she liked about herself, others less so. For instance, she liked that she was fun-loving and kindhearted, but she loathed that she was often irresponsible, especially around promises to her mum. She’d circled stubborn twice. A good trait in her work, but a trait that led her to never forget and rarely forgive.

  “You think of yourself as irresponsible?” asked Dr. Antwerp.

  “Kind of. I mean, people tell me that a lot. Mostly when I do drugs. I get carried away. And since I got famous, everyone is afraid to confront me if I behave badly. They treat me with kid gloves, like I might bite their little heads off if they dare upset me.”

  “Might you?”

  “I can act pretty rotten, especially if I’m sodded. I don’t like myself then. It’s all about me. Me. Me. Me. I feel like a giant two-year-old with a bad tummy. I think that’s why my mum sent me here. She wanted me to pay attention and clean up my act.”

  “You don’t think you belong here?”

  Poppy chewed the eraser tip of her pencil. “Not at first, but now I think maybe it’s okay. I mean, I got wasted and burned down a house. What if there had been someone home at the time?” Poppy averted her eyes. “I didn’t even check.”

  Poppy worried Candice’s list in her hand. The doctor had circled only two traits: hardworking and perfectionist. “You work all the time?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “And you never make mistakes?”

  “Can’t afford to, not in my line of work. I mean, if you’re a secretary and misspell a word in a letter, it’s no big deal. You know what would happen if I did a nose job and placed the break even a centimeter off kilter?”

  Poppy shook her head.

  “Well, it could well mean the difference between looking like Paris Hilton or Pinocchio. Given that, wouldn’t you want me to be as perfect as possible?”

  “See your point. Definitely. But what about outside work? Like your personal relationships. Your girlfriend, for instance. I mean, you’re not perfectionist then, are you?”

  No answer.

  “Oh come on,” coaxed Poppy. “Don’t go zip lip, Doc. I told you the truth about me. Give a little. You’re got a steady bird, right?”

  “No, I do not have a bird, steady or otherwise.”

  “But you used to have one, right?”

  Candice folded her arms across her chest.

  Scooting across the couch, Poppy pried the doctor’s arms open. “When you’re talking to someone, open your arms. Open your heart. Invite them in.”

  Dr. Antwerp’s arms lay limp, looking broken at her side.

  “Talk to me,” encouraged Poppy.

  Resisting the urge to lock her arms again, Candice admitted she’d had a steady girlfriend until recently.

  “Go on.”

  “She’s a makeup artist. Hallie. Owns her own company: Face Off. Does big-budget movies. That sort of stuff.”

  “Cool. And?” Poppy made a beckoning motion with her fingers. “More!”

  “And she’s hardworking.”

  Poppy groaned as she slapped both palms to her cheeks.

  “Why? What did I say?”

  “Sounds like you’re describing an employee, not the love of your life.”

  “Fine. Let’s see. She’s a beautiful blonde. A talker. Like you.”

  “Beautiful as in hot?”

  “Sizzling.”

  They both laughed.

  “She know you’re in the dyke drunk tank?”

  Candice’s face clouded. “She knows I took an East Coast spa vacation.”

  “She the reason you’re here?”

  Candice crossed her arms. Then uncrossed them. She strolled to the window where she pinned back a curtain. Dirk and her sister had tramped down a ramp in the snow bank at the side of the farmhouse. They were practicing flips and turns, laughing and jostling like kids.

  Candice grew sad that she’d never really had a childhood. She’d been hardworking even in kindergarten. Even her grade school teachers had found her a perfectionist. Poppy was right: If she hoped to set her life aright, she needed to open herself up. Take a dare or two. Start making some mistakes.

  Dirk turned a somersault in the snow, landing unsuccessfully on her back. Nonetheless she came up laughing, her feet bound together in the air on her blazing yellow snowboard.

  Poppy came to stand by the window. “You fancy Dirk?”

  Candice started to shrug but instead let her shoulders drop. “She’s cute. But, um, rather dykey.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Poppy stole another look at Dirk. “Yeah, if you want a girl that can pass at family get-togethers, best to mark that stud muffin off your list. You’re in the closet, yes?”

  “I don’t broadcast my sexual orientation, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Not quite, love. I mean, you don’t have to put it on page one, like I do, or be known on Twitter as #twinkletwat like Bunny. But, like, your parents, do they know about you?”

  Candice locked her arms. “No, and for the record I have never asked them about their sex lives, either.”

  “Come on, love, that’s not really the same, is it?”

  “I think it is.”

  “I think you’re in denial.”

  Candice made a face.

  “Look,” said Poppy, “did you tell Dirk you think she’s cute?”

  Dr. Antwerp thought back to their misadventures with the vacuum cleaner. “Sort of.”

  Poppy made a sound like a buzzer going off. “No good. You have to say it. Clearly. Out loud.”

  At that moment Babe rang the bell announcing evening group. Dr. Antwerp plucked her jacket from the couch but instead of buttoning it tightly across her bosom, as was her habit, she slung it casually across one shoulder.

  “You go, girl!” Poppy whispered as they entered the hush of the group room.

  23. Little Bunny’s Woo-Woo

  Hearing the clang of the group bell downstairs, Bunny rolled over in bed and squinted at her glow-in-the-dark, diamond-studded Cartier wristwatch.

  Seven p.m. Yucka-doodle. Time for group.

  The lump under the sheets next to Bunny rolled over, revealing a sweaty face and a mob of dark, uneven hair. Dylan was butt naked, same as Bunny. They’d gone to Bunny’s room to do a fearless moral inventory of their bad traits and ended up sharing some Ecstasy.

  After that they’d shared everything.

  Dylan wasn’t sure, but she seemed to remember Bunny’s woo-woo was dyed a lovely shade of laven
der with mauve highlights. A first for her. Somewhat freaky, too, because for a split second while under the influence of E, Dylan had thought she was licking out her deceased grandmother’s Evening in Paris powder-puff ensemble.

  “Shit!” groaned Dylan as, sweeping the hair from her eyes, she fished around the foot of Bunny’s disheveled bed for her jeans. She hadn’t worn any underwear. She rarely did. She’d decided long ago that it was easier this way. Took less time to suit up and sneak away.

  But Bunny, who was a twenty-year veteran at postcoital escapes, grabbed the back loop of Dylan’s jeans, spinning her backward onto the bed, and into her arms.

  “Hold on a minute, cowgirl!” Bunny murmured as she nibbled Dylan’s tattooed earlobe. “What’s the big rush? Relax. Have a cigarette.”

  Grabbing the offered cigarette, Dylan took a hard drag before remembering they weren’t supposed to smoke in the house. Or take drugs. Or miss group. She took another drag, anyway. What would those old dykes do? Kick her out?

  I should be so lucky!

  Bunny plucked the lit cigarette from Dylan’s lips and slipped it between her own. “Always offer a lady a cigarette after sex. It’s polite.”

  “I look like Miss Manners to you?” Dylan grumbled as she yanked on her ribbed white wife-beater. She stubbed her bare feet in the darkness around the bed in search of her boots.

  Christ, she couldn’t believe she’d slept with Bunny. She didn’t even like the woman. And now, on top of everything, she had a raging headache and a tongue as dry as a stick of salt. E was a great drug while it lasted, but coming off it could be one bumpy ride.

  Sprawled on her belly in bed, Bunny furtively tucked one of Dylan’s ankle boots under her abdomen. “Relax. We had sex. I’m not going to ask you to marry me. No biggy.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s for sure.”

  “Okay, no need to be rude. It was fun. Don’t get twisted up and think I’m in love with you or anything weird like that.”