by Ana Good
“They’re coming?”
“Babe said they were.”
“My dad’s coming, too. No biggy.” Bunny shrugged as she stepped into a silk-and-taffeta designer skirt. “I know what he’ll say. It’s all scripted. He hasn’t said a word in decades that the spin doctors didn’t write for him.”
Leaning into the mirror, Bunny puckered as she applied lipstick. “He’ll say his thing and I’ll say mine. I’ll promise never to drink or take drugs again. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Done deal.” She snapped shut her lipstick tube and dropped it into her clutch.
Candice eyed Bunny. “You’re not going to drink or do drugs again?”
“God no!” Bunny snorted.
“Why lie?”
“Because that is what he wants to hear. If I lie, I’ll get to go home and everyone will be nice to me.”
“Until you end up back here again.”
“Whoa, what’s this? I thought we were friends. Me and you.”
“We are, but Bunny, I have to be honest with you: I think you have a problem with drugs. Sex, too.”
“Me? Get real!”
“I am being real. Look, you’re sleeping with Dylan, right?”
Bunny raised a hand defensively. “Not sleeping. Fucking.”
“Okay, fucking. And when you sleep with her, are you ever sober?”
Bunny sighed, loudly. “Does it matter? I mean, honestly, does it really matter? Have we all turned into born-again Republicans or what?”
Candice wasn’t sure she had an answer for that. She was surprised in fact that she seemed to care. It was no business of hers, really, what Bunny did or did not do. Candice sat in a chair by the window. She tried to relax, but her spine pulled her upright. Her arms locked across her chest. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s right.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a car turning into the driveway. Ice cracked under the tires as the auto rolled toward the farmhouse. Leaning toward the window, Candice parted the curtain cautiously with the side of her hand. She held her breath until she saw the car was an antique silver-blue Mercedes: definitely not her parents.
A young man with flowing blond hair stepped out of the car. He was wearing a maroon velvet shirt, open to his navel, and black leather pants. He had the long gangling gait of a rock star. An ankle-length white fur coat gave him the odd appearance of a blond polar bear. A guitar hung casually upside down on his left shoulder, the strap studded with twinkling gemstones. He wore reflective aviator sunglasses, which he flipped up as he studied the sign above the front door.
“Who’s that?” whispered Candice. “Guy in an expensive fur coat. Must be lost.”
Bunny ran to the window. “My God, I bet that’s Roger!” she gasped.
“Roger?”
“Dylan’s husband.”
“Husband? Hello!” Candice slid a hand to her throat. “Husband? Ms. Big Pink Pussy has a husband? You’re kidding. Right?”
“I’d never joke about something torrid like that,” assured Bunny, her face dour.
“I though Dylan was Ms. Super Dyke. All that in-your-face talk about her Big Pink Pussy and all.”
“Oh, she’s gay. But she’s a terrible addict. She married him” — Bunny jerked a thumb toward the window — “while on a bender in Vegas.”
Candice scrutinized the lean musician as he stumbled up the front steps, his guitar throwing him off balance. “Dylan married that … and she thinks drugs are not causing serious problems in her life?”
“Believe you me, I pointed that out to her. But you know how these addicts are.”
Another car chugged up the hill, black smoke bellowing from its tailpipe. The car, an old Buick, slid to a stop beside Roger’s Mercedes. The car, white with black trim, circa 1977, boasted an undercarriage riddled like rusty Swiss cheese. Its license plate read, “Indiana.” Bumper stickers proclaimed, “Pro Life. God is My Co-Pilot. Hell Is Real: Prepare.”
A thin, bald man wearing a cheap three-piece suit fell out of the driver’s side. It took him several seconds to hoist himself up off the snow-trodden ground by grabbing at car door. By the time he was up, a woman had emerged from the passenger side and was trying to assist.
The woman had long, gray hair and thick, silver-rimmed, cat-eye glasses of the type that went out of style in the ’60s. She was rail thin. A tattered black woolen coat hung on her frail frame. She had a firm grip on what appeared to be her husband. Despite her smaller size and frail appearance, she was clearly the stronger of the two.
“Hello!” squealed Bunny. “Get a load of Mom and Pop Bible Belt. These two are definitely lost.” Bunny turned to see what Candice thought of the weird arrivals, but the good doctor had fled.
34. Kinky Kincaid
Storm Waters hung at the edge of the living room, one combat boot tucked flat against the wall, which, from a distance, she appeared to be holding up. She fiddled nervously with the name tag on her scoop-neck T-shirt as people poured into the farmhouse. Babe was strolling around the lobby, handing out name tags and rule books and printed schedules. She swarmed each newcomer like a mother hen.
Storm felt uneasy about this family weekend thing. Sure, her biological family was long gone, but in their place Babe was excepting her to work things out with her agent, Hunter Kincaid. Storm didn’t relish the thought of spending time with Hunter Kincaid (aka Kinky Kincaid) right now.
Rehab had been Hunter’s idea, suggested after Storm had flunked the network’s drug test three times running after each tour of duty in Baghdad. Yet Storm had not resisted rehab. As much as she loved her job, the idea of getting away from gunfire and guts for a while had, for the first time in Storm’s life, seemed appealing, at least momentarily.
Her last tour, where she’d witnessed a school bus full of children blown in half for no good reason, had shaken her to the core. She wasn’t sure she could return to a battlefield again. A thought she’d been keeping to herself, but which Babe was pushing her to discuss outright with her agent.
Storm was sure now that she had a drug problem. What scared her was she wasn’t sure she could kick it. Even now, two weeks away from the gunfire, she wasn’t sleeping. Mostly she stayed up all night and read. And paced. Or ran the treadmill for miles. She’d thought about having sex with Poppy — more than once, truth be told — but that, too, seemed wrong.
She could talk to Poppy. Really talk to her. That had never happened to Storm before, at least not since grade school. Poppy was her friend. A true confidante. The only one other than Babe who knew how scared Storm was deep down.
Super-scary stuff.
Storm was deep in thought about Poppy when a warm kiss slid across her cheek.
“Hi there, stranger,” said a sexy voice.
Storm looked up into scintillating turquoise eyes that could belong to only one woman: Hunter Kincaid. Hunter had a name tag stuck sideways on her cowl-neck cashmere sweater. The expensive sweater showcased a pair of petite bosoms that Storm had enjoyed on more than one occasion. (Hunter Kincaid was not known on the agent circuit as “Kinky” for no reason. She’d earned that moniker, with relish. Not just with Storm, but with her entire stable of high-powered lezzy celebs.)
Storm reluctantly returned the kiss to Hunter’s smooth cheek.
Unsatisfied with the polite peck, Hunter leaned in until the two women landed in a lip lock. Tongues tangled.
“Mmm,” hummed the agent. “You taste good.”
Storm pulled away. She shook her head, upset with the liberties her agent had taken. “Why did you do that?” she spat out.
“Mmm, I seem to recall you like that.”
“I used to like that.”
Hunter looked puzzled. She tossed back her long ebony hair. “Used to? Are you straight now, or what? I thought this place was for rehab, not sexual reconditioning.”
“Don’t bait me, Hunter,” warned Storm.
“Grumpy, aren’t we?”
“This pl
ace isn’t exactly fun.”
Hunter cast an eye about the room. “Yes, I can see. Sorry, honey, but the execs wanted you clean and sober. What was I to do?” She shrugged.
The conversation was interrupted by Poppy, who’d suddenly popped up between them. “Hello, love. Introduce us?”
Hunter turned all smiles and congeniality. “My God, you’re Poppy! Of Poppy and the Pop Tarts. That British girl band. Right?”
“Spot on. Last I checked, yes, that would be me. And you would be …” Poppy stood on tiptoe trying to read the sideways name tag. “Hummer?” she asked.
“Hunter. Hunter Kincaid.” The agent offered her hand to Poppy.
“My agent,” growled Storm. “She signed me in. I need her permission to get out.”
Hunter rolled her eyes. “Ignore her,” she advised Poppy. “I put her here for her own good. The little darling needed a little R&R.”
“My own good!” wailed Storm. “What about your good? Don’t think I don’t know the execs offered you an extra twenty percent if you return me sober.”
Hunter grunted. “Extra work. Extra pay. You can be a handful, dear.”
Storm was about to protest when Lily rang the bell calling the room to attention. The room was so crowded no one could move. Lily waited until the noise settled before speaking.
“Welcome, everyone. You should all have picked up a schedule when you selected your name tags. We’ll begin by taking one group of you aside, for private therapy. You others are free to wonder around the farmhouse. Catch up with each other. You’ll be called when your time comes. That room in the corner” — Lily pointed to Babe’s office — “is where you’ll convene for private family sessions. Check the schedule to see your appointed time. And please, everyone, be on time!”
Hunter checked her yellow schedule sheet. “Looks like we’re up first, darling.” She beamed at Storm as she grabbed the newscaster’s hand and tugged her across the crowded room toward the promise of a more private space.
As Storm bounced through the sea of people, she caught sight of Poppy fading into a corner. Poppy, she thought, looked sad. An elderly woman sat in the corner. The woman wore a tall green hat which reminded Storm of something the Queen of England might wear.
Poppy’s mother, no doubt. She looked quite the battle-ax.
“Good luck!” Poppy mouthed across the room to Storm as the pop star slid uncomfortably onto the settee beside her mother.
Storm was about to return the wish when Hunter grabbed her by the waist and shoved her into the therapy room.
Babe wasn’t in the room yet, a fact that didn’t seem to bother Hunter. She lit into Storm as soon as the door was shut. “You’re sleeping with that English slut puppy!” raged Hunter. “How could you?”
Storm crossed her arms. Oh boy, here it is. Dyke drama. She hadn’t missed this part of the real world at all. “I am not,” declared Storm.
“Fuck it, don’t lie to me. Of course you are. I can see it in your eyes. The way you two look googoo-eyed at each other.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Friends? Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? Is that bitch even legal?”
“She’s in her twenties.”
“She looks like a twig with lips. Good lord, if you’re going to cheat on me, you could do better. Much better. Go fuck Rosie or something. At least that woman has an ass on her.”
Storm puffed up. “Don’t accuse me of cheating. You and I are not an item.”
“We’re not?”
“No, we are not. We slept together a couple of times. Don’t go all lesbo on me and send out the wedding invitations. Besides, that was months ago. And, in my defense, I was stoned. Fucko on pain meds. Meds which you gave me, by the way. Meds which you have always given me in an effort to keep me upright and working so you can keep collecting commission checks.”
Hunter rolled her eyes as she threw herself onto the sofa. “You were stoned. How convenient. Is that what they teach you in here? If you do it when you’re stoned, it doesn’t count?”
Babe quietly entered the room. “Actually it kinda doesn’t.”
Hunter shot dagger eyes at Babe. “Who are you?”
“Therapist. Mind if I come in? Sounds like you two could use a referee.”
Hunter shrugged. “Suit yourself. So, since I’m paying for this rehab thing, how is our girl wonder doing? She clean?” Suddenly Hunter was all business. All agent. Clear eyed and hard jawed.
Babe raised her eyebrows. “You two have a personal relationship?”
“Had!” shouted Storm.
“Because if you have a personal relationship, this seriously changes the nature of what we’ll discuss in here today.”
“Save your breath,” hissed Hunter. She sat stiffly erect on the couch, her legs crossed at the ankles. “This will be strictly professional.”
35. All Hail the Queen
Poppy shifted uncomfortably on the settee. Her mother hadn’t exchanged a dozen words with her since arriving. She turned to face her mother, her throat dry, her heart racing. “That’s quite a nice hat, Mum.”
“Yes, it rather is.” Dame Diane, Poppy’s mother, folded her leather gloves into a neat square and pocketed them in her purse. “This place seems quite nice,” she offered as she straightened her hat and studied the high tin-clad ceilings.
“It is.”
“The other girls Yanks?”
“Except me.”
Poppy clasped her hands in her lap. She was finding it difficult to focus on her mother. It was difficult enough to admit to her mother that she’d been right in locking her up in rehab. Yes, that was going to be hard to admit. But what gnawed at Poppy more at the moment was an even sharper pain.
That woman: the one Storm claimed was her agent. Poppy had arrived in the living room just in time to see Hunter tonsil-probe Storm. And Hunter was a looker. Babelicious, to say the least. Tall and willowy with petite pert bosoms and a nice pert bum. Long dark hair that flowed down her perfectly arched back like a river of silk. Worse still, she’d seemed oddly comfortable sucking on Storm’s face.
Storm had never mentioned a steady girl. Then again, Poppy had never asked …
Dame Zigfield took her daughter’s hand, drawing her out of her obsessive wondering about Hunter Kincaid. “I didn’t want this for you,” Dame Zigfield said, her voice soft. “I didn’t know what else to do. I just didn’t know.”
Poppy sighed as she squeezed her mother’s warm, soft hand. “I know, Mum.”
“You forgive me?”
“Forgive you!” Poppy squealed. “Mum, you did me a bloody favor. Forgive you? I ought to give you a royal medal.”
“What? You’re not mad?” The dame’s eyes widened.
“I was mad. Steaming like a pot. But this place has me thinking. I need to open my heart to the world again. You were dead right. You saw it. The drugs were starting to get the best of me.”
“Oh, honey, what I saw was that I was losing you. You used to be so sweet. My little Prudence.” The dame proffered a hug.
“Mum, please,” begged Poppy, whose face reddened at the mention of her true legal name. “Don’t use that name out loud.”
“But honey, it’s your name. I gave it to you when you were born. It’s your grandmum’s name, and her mum before her.”
“Mum, please,” Poppy pleaded. “I don’t want the tabloids, or these women, to know that.”
Her mother sighed deeply. “I suppose you don’t want them to know you’re truly a kind, sweet girl, either.”
Poppy fingered a broken rosary that hung from her neck. “Doesn’t go with the image,” she muttered. “I need to keep up my image.”
Dame Diane straightened. “Need that image be so sexually filthy?”
“Afraid so, Mum. That’s what sells these days.”
“I see.”
Poppy struggled to find some way to reach her mother. She knew her mother loved her. And she loved her in turn. But they had such problems communic
ating. Everything about Poppy seemed to repel her mother. Poppy didn’t know anymore how to be herself and still be her mother’s daughter. Her mother disapproved of everything: her clothes, her lyrics, her concerts - most of all her lesbianism. Every conversation in the last year had ended with Poppy screaming, her mother snapping shut door after door, both physically and mentally. Drugs, for Poppy, had become large earmuffs. The more she took, the less she heard her mother’s silent screams of disapproval. If Poppy hoped to stay sober and regain her life, she realized she needed to find a way to communicate with her mother. They didn’t have to be huggy-huggy-kissy-face, but they had to call a truce.
Poppy studied her mother. “Want to take a walk?”
“Oh dear, I suppose we could. I’d need rubbers, though.” She stuck out her feet, which were clad in sturdy seasonable low-heeled shoes. “It seems mucky out there.”
“I have just the thing,” Poppy assured her mother as she led her to the kitchen.
Dame Diane sat on the kitchen bench by the door patiently waiting as her daughter switched her old-lady shoes for snow boots, then laced those into a pair of snowshoes.
“My!” exclaimed the dame as she admired her huge feet. “Never walked about in anything quite like this before.”
“Trust me, Mum. I’ll show you how.”
After putting on her own snowshoes, Poppy helped her mother clang across the wooden floor of the kitchen toward the back door. Holding hands, they jumped into the snow together.
“Oh my!” called her mother who struggled to stay erect. “These Yanks do know how to have fun.”
36. Mama McGraw
Dirk and Thumper slouched on the couch in the therapy room. Their mother, Sheila McGraw, sat sandwiched between them. The trio hadn’t said a word since entering the room. Babe, for her part, was letting them bask in a soup of their own awkward silence.
Sheila looked uncomfortable. She, unlike her daughters, was not a tall woman. In fact, she wasn’t even five feet tall with her snow boots on. She did, however, boast a fair complexion and a Germanic jaw, features that echoed in her athletic daughters. Her cropped strawberry-blonde hair had begun to gray at the temples. She wore what appeared to be a new pair of men’s blue jeans, cuffed at the bottom. Her jeans were complemented by a black knit turtleneck sweater, also from the men’s department. Her eyebrows had never been plucked. In the dim light of the therapy room they resembled a pair of red geese spanning her forehead. She looked like a farm wife, or a middle-aged country dyke; Babe couldn’t decide which.