by Ana Good
Poppy kicked off her flannel sleeping pants and slid into a stretch micro-mini. She pulled on a matching spangle top. “Just being herself.” Poppy strolled over to the window and cast a glance at Wee Gee’s blinking blue cursor. “Blocked?” she asked as she rubbed her nose to ward off the cold.
“Maybe. But maybe I’m just all out of stuff to say.”
“You? Struck dumb?” Poppy rolled her eyes. “I doubt that.”
When the laughter faded, Poppy grew serious. “Does it ever bother you?” she asked as she sat down at the vanity to apply her makeup — a task that could take her an hour or two.
“What?” asked Wee Gee. “Does what bother me?”
“The pressure. All the people watching. Waiting. Everyone wanting you to produce so they can get a piece of the pie.”
Wee Gee grunted. “It’s the American way, honey.”
“I’m British,” complained the pop star.
“A dollar’s a dollar, even if it’s a pound,” laughed Wee Gee. “That why you perform? The money?”
Poppy waited until she’d whisked on a third coat of mascara before shaking her head in a virulent no.
“Didn’t think so. Not why I write, either. Not originally, anyway.”
Poppy flicked rouge across her cheeks. “Why do you write?”
“I’m naturally mouthy. Always thought I had something to say.”
“That computer screen doesn’t look very mouthy to me.”
Wee Gee sighed. “I’m supposed to write romance.”
“And?”
“Not sure it exists anymore.”
“Come on, love!” protested Poppy. “How can you say such a wicked thing?”
“I’m a lot older than you, that’s how.”
“Well, if you’d like my opinion, I believe it exists.”
“Which? Love or romance?”
“Both. Definitely both.”
“Hmmm. This opinion have anything to do with that little war correspondent with the ice-blue eyes you’ve been mooning over?”
“Oh, stop it!” cried Poppy. “I have not been mooning.”
“Yes, you have. She’s a doll, that one.”
“You think so?”
“I said I was old, not blind. I like strong women. That one is a tank. Very sexy, in my book: strength.”
Poppy twisted her lips.
“What? What’s wrong now?”
“I do fancy her, but she’s not even tried to wank me. At least not since that first day, in the vegetable closet. She was all over me then, but since she’s been hands off, like I’ve got the bloody plague. All we do is talk. Yakety, yakety, yak.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Why you think she’s acting like that?”
Poppy shrugged. “I guess she sees us as friends, sisters, or something weird like that.”
Wee Gee grunted.
“What? What was that for?”
“More likely it’s because she really likes you. A lot.”
“Huh?”
But the two had to stop their conversation. Babe was shouting for them from the hallway. It was time for them to start breakfast, and this morning they’d have more people to feed, as several visiting family members had decided to begin the day with breakfast at the farm.
42. Bad-Mouthing Baby Jesus
After breakfast, Wee Gee was first up in the family therapy room. Unlike most of the others, she’d checked into rehab voluntarily. She didn’t have to work things out with a legal guardian, the courts, or an insurance company. She didn’t have to please anyone, other than herself. She had no life partner: a true gift at times like this, she reasoned.
No fool, Wee Gee realized full well how much emotional work partnership required. With two ex-husbands, seven grown kids, and a stable of ex-girlfriends, Wee Gee had apologized for almost every imaginable bad act of addiction over the last forty years.
She was damned tired of making amends.
For this stint in rehab, she’d chosen her oldest daughter, Shawnee, to work with her in family therapy. Shawnee had been reluctant at first. She’d not always approved of her mother’s actions: Of all Wee Gee’s children, she approved the least of her lesbianism. Shawnee was the one family member that Wee Gee felt she had truly failed. Both women weighed over two hundred pounds. Both were twice divorced, currently alone in life. Whatever issues Wee Gee had about weight and food and relationships, Shawnee certainly shared. Wee Gee figured she owed it to her daughter to discuss this possibility out loud.
Shawnee sat on the couch, her hands clutched in her lap. (Babe had never met this particular daughter and was startled to see how much the two woman looked alike: mirror images staring at each other across a twenty-year gap in time.) “Mom, I don’t want to be here,” mewed Shawnee.
“I know, honey.”
“Why is she here?” asked Babe.
“Because I think I’ve failed her. I need to make amends.”
“Mother, you know I don’t like that kind of talk.”
Babe looked puzzled. “What kind of talk?”
“Making amends. All that AA stuff. It’s like a cult.” She fingered a string of pearls around her neck.
“You go to church,” Wee Gee reminded her daughter.
“Mother, the Christian church is not a cult.”
“Honey, it’s a bunch of people who believe a dead guy will rise up and save them. You all sit around on Sunday morning and drink his blood and eat his body. Christianity, baby girl, is definitely a cult.”
Shawnee clutched her hands together more tightly. “Mom, if you’re going to bad-mouth the Lord Jesus, I’ll have to leave.”
Babe intervened. “Let’s not talk about religion right now. I think what your mother means to say is she believes she may have set bad examples for you. She wants to talk about that.”
Shawnee’s eyes widened. “You mean the lesbianism?”
“No,” bellowed Wee Gee. “I mean the overeating.”
“I don’t overeat.”
“You’re overweight.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
Wee Gee stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Honey, you’ve got the sugar, just like me.”
“Mom, no one calls it ‘the sugar’ anymore.”
“I do.”
“You do a lot of things in odd ways.”
“True.”
Sensing a dead end, Babe interjected. “Shawnee, I think what your mother means is that she’s concerned about your health. The diabetes, and all. Is it okay if we call it diabetes?”
“Yes,” agreed Shawnee, through tightly held lips.
“Okay,” said Wee Gee. “Babe is right. I worry about you, baby girl. You’ve got” — here Wee Gee hesitated — “the diabetes, and like me you’re alone in this world. It’s like you’re trying to please me by being me.”
“That’s ridiculous, Mother!” Shawnee jumped to her feet.
“Sit back down!” bellowed Wee Gee. “Let me have my say!”
Shawnee wilted onto the couch.
Wee Gee stood this time. “Honey, when you were little, I fed you all sorts of things just to shut you up.”
“That’s love, Mom. Mothers do that.”
“No, all mothers do not do that. I taught you food was love. I gave you more food than I ever gave you love.”
“You were busy writing, Mother. That always came first for you.”
“That what you think?”
“What?”
“That I love writing more than you?”
“You always said so. You never really wanted us children. You said that more than once. It was the topic of an entire speech you made Christmas 1975, as I recall, at Grandma Greeley’s. That time you set the Christmas tree on fire.”
Wee Gee fell silent.
“That true?” asked Babe.
“Yes, that is true.” Wee Gee’s face was lined with remorse. “I’m sorry to say I remember the Christmas she is talking about. I was still marr
ied to her father. We were about to divorce. We’d lost the house to bad debt, his gambling. I had a trunk chock-full of slutty novels no one would buy. At the time, me and Jack Daniel’s were mighty tight.”
“She was a sloppy drunk,” said Shawnee, with acrimony in her voice. “Mean and nasty.”
“I was unhappy most of my life, honey.” Wee Gee looked at her daughter with pleading eyes. “I wrongly took it out on you kids.”
“Got that right,” her daughter sniveled.
Wee Gee sat on the couch next to her daughter. She took Shawnee’s chin in her hand and forced her face up until their eyes met. “That is what I am trying to make amends to you for. I was young when you were born. And stupid. And headstrong. I wish to God I could live my life backward and clean up all the mistakes, but nobody gets to do that. This here is the best I can do. And whether you realize it or not, you are the spitting image of me, in many ways. All I’m asking is a chance to make us right. Here. Now. In the present. When I get out of this place, I want you to come to Louisville and stay with me for a month or so. I’m checking us into one of those swanky new health spas where we can have fun learning to cook like gourmets and learn new ways to deal with our diet. You with me or not, baby girl?”
“Oh, Mama!” cried Shawnee, who’d collapsed into her mother’s open arms. “Of course I’m with you. I’m scared to death of this diabetes thing.”
Wee Gee hugged her girl and kissed her forehead gently. She used the edge of her hand to squeegee away the tears on her daughter’s round cheeks.
Shawnee swallowed hard. “Just one thing, Mama? One thing, okay?”
“What? Anything, baby girl. Just ask.”
“Promise me you’ll stop making fun of Jesus.”
“I’ll do my best,” she vowed.
43. Love Yurt
Right before lunch, Betty Frump and Alice Everwright arrived in the therapy room exactly on time, holding each other’s hands as if united in a march on Washington for righteous marital recognition. Alice was wearing a thin cotton shift and brightly colored, hand-knitted woolen Peruvian socks on her narrow feet. Despite the minus twenty degrees temperature outside, her feet were stuffed inside a pair of Birkenstock sandals so ancient her blackened footprints were imbedded inside.
Babe found herself curious about this couple and how they’d deal with the topic of addiction. Clearly, Betty was in charge. Of all the women in treatment, Betty, next to Bunny, had been the least forthcoming about her addiction. Betty was a slippery fish, very political, which meant very used to working the room, and everyone in it.
Betty began the session by facing her partner and offering an apology. “I’m sorry. I was overworked. I guess I got used to using the pipe to wind down. I’ve got my head screwed right again. No more dope.”
Alice said nothing.
“Well,” continued Betty. “Do you forgive me or not?”
Alice remained mute.
“Alice?”
“I heard you, Betty,” said Alice softly as she adjusted the glasses on her nose.
“Okay. So? Are we square or not?”
“Not.” Alice moved a few inches down the sofa away from Betty. “Definitely not.”
Babe leaned forward, curious about the quiet tone of dissent in Alice’s voice. “Why not? Can you explain to Betty what you mean, Alice?”
“Yes, but first I have to say I think it’s really none of your business. I don’t even know you.” She scowled at Babe.
“Fair enough,” said Babe. “You don’t know me. Try thinking of me as a mediator. I’m here to make sure everyone gets heard. That everyone gets equal time on the floor, so to speak.”
Alice’s face brightened. She crossed her legs at her knees and yanked up each sock before continuing. “I want a divorce.” She pulled a roll of papers out of her canvas co-op tote bag. “Sign these, please.”
“What the fuck are those?” Betty grabbed at the papers and began to paw through them, answering her own question. “You can’t divorce me!”
“I most certainly can. We were married in Massachusetts. I’ll file the divorce papers there Monday morning.”
“You can’t divorce me!” Betty repeated, as if she’d heard none of the last few snatches of conversation.
“I can. And I will.”
Babe had to gather her wits, fast. She too had been struck dumb by the announcement. “Can I ask why you want a divorce?”
“You can.”
“Why do you want a divorce?”
“You’ve met her?” Alice threw a shoulder toward Betty. “Don’t pretend you have to ask why.”
“Divorce?” Betty cried. Her face was pale now. Her arms crossed. Sweat beaded her forehead. “Divorce!” she screamed. “We can’t get a fucking divorce. What about the Family Foundation? We’ll look like fools. People count on us to show the world that lesbian families are viable.”
“Lesbian families are viable, just not this one,” said Alice quietly.
No one said anything for quite a long time. The clock ticked loudly on the wall.
Babe tried to open dialogue again. “Is this something you are certain about, Alice?”
“Yes. I’ve known for a while now. Since Easter, in fact.”
“Easter!” Betty raged. “And you’re just telling me now?”
“I tried to tell you before. Frankly, you’re not an easy person to talk to. You use your anger to shut down communication.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” raged Betty.
“That. That is precisely what I am talking about. Could you lower your voice, please? Your very tone is meant to intimidate, and I’m not falling for it anymore. You can go be a big bad bull dyke all by yourself for all I care.”
Babe cleared her throat. “Is there anything Betty can do to change your mind?”
“Stop right there!” cried Betty. “Who said I want to change this woman’s mind?”
“I thought maybe —”
“Thanks, but it’s my life. Frankly, I think this divorce could be the right move.”
Alice leaned forward.
“Sure,” said Betty. “It’ll be a test case for the Massachusetts supreme court. That means big-time press. I intend to sue for custody, of course.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Alice narrowed her lips and her eyes simultaneously.
“Try me.”
“Frances warned me you’d be vindictive.”
“Who the hell is Frances?”
“My lover.”
“You have a lover?”
“Since Easter. Remember that Vernal Equinox party at the farm outside Northampton?”
“Yes.”
“That was hosted by Frances. Frances Green. She wore that horned-bull, wood-spirit androgyny hat and led the fertility dance?”
“I vaguely remember. That awful dance, not her.” Betty was picking at lint on the hem of her caftan, feigning a lack of interest now.
“While you were busy getting stoned, Frances invited me back to her yurt.”
“Her yurt?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead,” sneered Betty. “I can tell you want me to suffer the dirty details. Please, be my guest. It’ll make me look good in the divorce suit. Tell me more, please.”
“I like dildos,” Alice blurted out. “Adore them, in fact. Love ’em as much as Raisinets. Can’t get enough.”
Betty squared her shoulders. “I get the picture.”
“Frances owns one. Several, in fact. And the children adore her.” Alice rose as she finished talking.
“Wait! You can’t leave yet,” admonished Babe. “We have twenty minutes left in this session.”
“Fuck off!” said Alice, who was gone in the wink of an eye.
Part III — Bush Whacked: Backsliding and Betrayal
Interlude
At the beginning of the final week of treatment, a foot of snow, and an equal amount of icy silence, slid over Sugarbush. Families had said their piece and vanished. The women, still locked
in treatment, hung at the ice-flecked windows of the farmhouse watching the world vanish under rolling blankets of white.
The chill of sobriety trickled deep inside each woman.
Candice could not escape the image of her father shaking his cane. He was right: She was a homo-sex-u-all. Queer, lezzy, bull dyke. Her question now: So what? Why, oh why, had she ever let that man scare her? Wasn’t it about time she flung open the door on her closet of fear and stomped honestly into the world? That idea frightened and thrilled her at the same time.
Storm had never felt more fragile. Her agent, Kinky Kincaid, had not reacted well to the new sober, sleepless, defiant Storm. Storm feared she was about to lose both her career and her income. If she couldn’t get her act together, she’d never make it back to the war zone. What would happen to her then? She imagined herself on TV in a job like Jerry Springer, goading housewives to act like feral animals. “Fuck,” was all she could whisper to herself as she lay awake nights staring at the stamped-tin ceiling.
Wee Gee continued to write, and to promptly rip apart every word. She dreamed constantly of jelly doughnuts. Big, plump, doughy rolls oozing raspberry jam. Of all the addictions she’d suffered, this one with food was the worst. With the other addictions — alcohol, for instance — she’d conquered her demons by walking away. She’d never allowed a bottle into her home again. But she could not walk away from food. She had to eat: Three times a day, demon food breathed foul, hot temptation into her face.
“Moderation,” Babe kept whispering to her.
Yeah, right, easy for that skinny-assed cracker to say. Wee Gee Judd was not a woman of moderation. She loved to indulge. Loved it. Loved it. Loved it.
Thumper was spending endless hours snowboarding. Snowboarding was a real challenge now. The snow was deep. Drifts turned into mountains of powder. Dirk tried to help, but Thumper shook away her assistance. Dirk could not compete in the Olympics, or on any other women’s athletic event, as long as she continued steroids. Thumper was alone. She doubted she could compete without Dirk at her side, setting the pace. What she refused to see was that while Dirk might be retiring from competition, she had no intention of retiring from her role as a caring sister. “Let me help you train,” Dirk pleaded constantly to her twin’s deaf ears.