The Dirty Girls Social Club

by Alisa Valdes

“Right. You’re just … clumsy. Right? Isn’t that what you tell everyone?”

  I curl my feet under me on the sofa, as if that might protect me from the truth in her words. I pull the bottom of my long blue sweater down over me, to cover the growing curve of my belly and any scratches or bruises that might be showing.

  “My heart is broken, just broken,” I say. “I can’t believe you were shtupping women all these years and never told me.”

  “I don’t shtup. That’s what men do.”

  “Whatever you do.”

  “I love them, Sara. I love women. Don’t make it crass.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I really am hurt. Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me?”

  “Sara,” she says apologetically. “It’s not you I didn’t trust. It was me. It took me a long time to even be able to admit it to myself, don’t you see that? I still haven’t, not entirely.”

  “I just can’t believe it’s true, not you. I mean, I always thought lesbians were ugly. You’re so feminine. So pretty.”

  She says only one word to this: “Mitos.” Myths.

  Indeed, Liz looks pretty, normal as always, but I can see circles of exhaustion underneath her eyes. She looks so tired, so sad, so alone. I can’t believe she’s here. I can’t believe she is … one of those. I try to picture her with a woman, and can’t.

  “What’s it feel like?” I ask.

  “What?” she says.

  “Being with a woman.”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Every person is different.”

  “I’ve always kind of wondered, you know, normal curiosity.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I bet a woman knows how to please you a lot better than a man, huh?”

  “I don’t know, Sara. It really depends more on the person.”

  “Right. That makes sense. I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I don’t know what to say. I wish you’d trusted me more. You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

  “I’d take it how I take everything else. I’m not some kind of Dr. Laura.”

  “I’m not saying you are. It’s just I had to be cautious, so much at stake.”

  “I just wish you’d told me. That’s the only thing that’s changed between us, you know? I don’t trust you as much.”

  “I’m still me,” Elizabeth says, tapping her chest with one hand. “Nothing has changed.”

  “No, I think everything has changed. For you. I think you better quit that organization, and maybe even think about quitting your job. People are crazy, Liz. I got two words for you: Matthew Shepard.”

  Liz shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s that bad. Come on. Be reasonable. Most people are open-minded, I think.”

  Vilma dusts the coffee table, makes brief, sympathetic eye contact with me.

  “Are you certain you’re a lesbian?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Then live as one.” I can’t believe I’m saying this to Liz. “Be proud of who you are, mi vida. To hell with everyone else. Enjoy the attention. Think of all the gay and lesbian kids who see you and feel better about themselves.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll do that, live proud as a lesbian, when you leave Roberto. He’s not going to change. You know that, don’t you?”

  “We’re not talking about me, remember?”

  “Why not? Let’s talk about you.”

  Vilma brings a plate of cheese and crackers, and the smell of the cheese sends puke signals to my brain. I guess my daughter doesn’t like cheese. I push myself up, run to the bathroom off the kitchen. I don’t have time to close the door. I don’t even have time to make it to the toilet. Pale yellow bile and chunks of waffle splat on the green tile floor, on the white pedestal sink, on the toilet seat.

  Liz follows me, worried, and stands in the bathroom door.

  “Oh, my God. Sarita. Are you okay?” she asks.

  I press my hands onto the toilet seat for support, turn my head to see her. She looks so pretty. How is it possible? If I were that pretty I’d want every man in the world wanting me. I feel my abdomen contract in a heave, and turn to the water. This time, the vomit sloshes into the bowl. I heave long after there is nothing left in me. My mouth tastes bitter and raw, my teeth filmy and thin.

  “Do you want to go to the hospital?” she asks.

  “Go away,” I say, dabbing my mouth with toilet paper. “Get out of here.” I don’t think I’ve vomited in front of Elizabeth since we were freshmen in college, too drunk to care. “I like to hurl in private, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re really sick, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I pull the chain to flush the mock-antique toilet and stagger to the sink. I use toilet paper to wipe up the mess, rinse my mouth with cold water, wash my face, pat it dry with an Egyptian cotton towel, beige.

  “No,” I reconsider, looking at her in the mirror. “I’m not fine. I’m sick about all of this. I’m really worried about you.”

  “You’re vomiting because of me?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I push her out of the way and walk back to the TV room. Vilma has been standing like a sentry outside the bathroom door, with the bucket and rag. She does not look at me or Elizabeth as we pass.

  Elizabeth follows me down the hall to the media room, walking fast. I hear Vilma running the water in the bathroom, cleaning up after me. Good old Vilma.

  “I’m sorry, Sara,” Elizabeth says. Her hands fly in front of her face as she speaks. That used to be what made us such good friends, the Latin way we argued. “I should have been honest with you from the start.” She continues to talk, smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “I’m sorry you’re letting this get to you. Don’t. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. The fact that you accept me no matter what is more important to me than what any of those people at the station think.”

  I look at the digital clock flashing on the cable box. The boys will be home from school any minute now, wanting their soy milk and organic whole grain cookies, ready to show me their homework. I don’t want them to find her here.

  “You have to go,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Roberto,” I say. “We can still be friends, but you have to give me some time to work on him about you. He’s really angry about it.”

  “Roberto’s angry because I’m a lesbian?” she asks.

  “That’s what he said. He called you a pervert and whatever. It’s stupid. Don’t worry about it. I just can’t have the boys catch you here. He thinks we’re having an affair. You and me. Que locura, te lo digo. Why would he think a thing like that?”

  “Sara,” she says, coming to sit near me. She sighs, looks me hard in the eye.

  “What?” I ask her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “There’s something I should have told you a long time ago.”

  I get a pit, another wave of nausea. I can sense what she’s going to say. “Don’t,” I say. “I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “You should know.”

  We stare at each other for a long minute, then she says, “You should know because I think you could be in real danger from him.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, bracing.

  “Back in college, you remember that trip we all took to Cancún for spring break, you, me, Roberto, that guy Gerald I was dating, Lauren, and that one guy, whatever his name was?”

  “Alberto. Pimple man.”

  “Alberto. Zits galore. Him.”

  “Yes. How could I forget a trip like that?”

  “Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “There was one day when we went scuba diving, and you had a hard time with the equipment and decided to wait for us on the boat, you remember that?”

  “Yes. I said I’d rather ‘Cuba dive,’ with margaritas on shore.”

  “Well, we were all over at this
coral reef, and Roberto …” She stops. Takes a deep breath. “Roberto swam over to me and touched me under the water.”

  “What do you mean he ‘touched you’?” I’m furious.

  “He touched me. He ran his hand along my back and left it on my rear end.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “He did.”

  “He probably just got pushed to you by the current.”

  “Sara. Please.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “We were in shallow water. I grabbed his hand and pulled him up and asked him what he was doing.”

  “And?”

  “He said he was doing what came naturally to him as a man.”

  “That’s so stupid. Roberto wouldn’t say something that stupid.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “We were young, it doesn’t mean anything.” I can’t believe I’m saying such words. I sound like an idiot.

  “It was long ago, Sarita. But he looks at me. He’s looked at me since then.”

  “So? Looking’s a crime now? Everyone looks at you.”

  “I just think that might be why he’s so angry. And from what you’re telling me, things just keep getting worse with him. I’m worried about you. He’s not a saint or something. You don’t need him.”

  “I hate him sometimes.”

  “You should. But not for what he did to me. You should hate him for what he does to you.”

  I look at the clock. I can hear our nanny pulling into the driveway with my car. “You have to go, Liz. Now.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sara.” She hugs me. I hug back, shove her away, hug her again.

  “Go. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay.” A tear slips from the corner of her eye down her cheek. “I’m scared.”

  “My boys are coming home and I don’t want them around you.”

  “God, Sara, do you have to be so mean? I love those boys, and they love me.”

  “I don’t want them to tell their father you were here,” I correct myself. “He’d kill me, Liz.”

  “You think he’d go that far?”

  “It’s an expression, cariño.”

  “It’s more than that and you know it. He could very well kill you.”

  Vilma peeks her head in the door and asks if I need anything.

  “Some saltines,” I say. “Please. And some 7UP.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Saltines and 7UP?” Liz asks, a smile flashing through her tears as she gathers her purse and keys. “Are you expecting again, Sara? Don’t lie to me. I can always tell when you lie.”

  “You should quit that job,” I tell her. “And quit that charity. There are tons of charities out there. You can get another job.”

  “You are! You’re pregnant again!” She hugs me again. I smile.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper.

  “I won’t. Congratulations, mi amor.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I joke, “or I’ll think I’m your type.” I blow her a dramatic kiss. She laughs.

  “Nos vemos, chica,” she says.

  “I’ll call you soon,” I say. “Be careful out there.”

  She takes a quick look around the entry as she shrugs into her men’s parka. “And you,” she says. “You be careful in here.”

  I walk her to the front door, and open it. She stops on the front step, turns back, and tries to say something, but I hear the children coming in through the garage door to the kitchen, and shut the front door in Liz’s face.

  I waddle upstairs to my room and collapse on the oversized California king bed. Maybe it’s the emotions from the pregnancy, or maybe it’s the shock of having to accept that my best friend is one of those, or having to admit to myself what I have always instinctually known: Roberto is in love with Elizabeth.

  Vilma appears at my side with a tray of crackers and soda.

  “Leave it right there,” I say, wiping the tears on the back of my hand.

  She doesn’t move.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You should eat something. You don’t look good.”

  “I can’t eat right now,” I sob. “My heart is broken.”

  Vilma sets the tray on my bedside table, takes the glass of soda in her expert hands, and sits next to me on the bed. “Here,” she says softly, motherly. “Drink, Sarita. You need your strength.” I part my lips, and sip a little soda. It makes me dizzy.

  “No, please, I can’t,” I tell her.

  Vilma holds a cracker to my lips.

  “The baby needs her strength, too,” she says.

  “You know?” I ask.

  Vilma nods almost imperceptibly. “Of course, Sarita. Eat.”

  I nibble at the cracker, thrilled that she has finally called me Sarita again. When I finish, Vilma makes me eat two more. She makes me finish the glass of soda.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “I know things,” she says, tapping her breast over her heart. “Now you get some rest. All this stress is bad for the baby.”

  Vilma kisses me on the head the way she used to when I was a child, and leaves the room.

  I sob into my goose down comforter with the pink flannel duvet for five minutes, until Sethy and Jonah come bounding into my room, all boy energy. They climb onto the bed. Jonah smooths my hair from my eyes with his small hand, and asks me what’s wrong. Sethy beats his chest like Tarzan and performs wild somersaults off the bed onto the floor. I tell them Mommy fell down and has a boo-boo and she’ll be fine.

  “Is Daddy home?” Jonah asks. “Did he make the boo-boo? I hate Daddy sometimes.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t say such things.”

  Then I hug them and ask them about their days.

  “Did you know Tia Liz is a thespian?” Seth asks, his mouth open in mock horror, his hands slapped to the side of his face like Macaulay Culkin in that stupid movie.

  “Shh,” Jonah says to his brother. “Don’t say anything.”

  “Who told you that?” I ask Seth, shocked at his timing. Did he see her here? God, I hope not. He better not say anything to his father about it.

  “Andrew Lipinski.”

  “Well, Andrew Lipinski’s mommy should wash his mouth out with soap, because it’s not true. Don’t talk about that again in this house.”

  We talk more about school, and then I send them down to Sharon and Vilma for their afternoon snacks. I am not usually so distant with my boys, but right now I feel like I can’t keep it all together. You know how it is, sabes, like any little thing might set you off. I don’t like to cry in front of my children.

  Roberto comes home from work in a good mood. His cheerful voice echoes in the foyer.

  “I won my case, amorcito,” he calls. He whistles the tune “We’re in the Money.”

  “Felicidades,” I shout, congratulating him. Thank God. At least there’s some good news today in this house. I fix my hair, wipe the mascara from underneath my eyes, and stand at the top of the stairs, smiling like the perfect wife. I don’t want him to know I know about Cancún. I will never bring it up, God help me. Roberto dances, holds his arms open to me, and I do my best to rush to him with as much false excitement as I can manage, think of Ginger Rogers all the way down the stairs. He lifts me off the floor, swings me around, laughing. He carries me into the kitchen, sets me down, and plants a kiss on my lips. “You look beautiful,” he says. “You always look more beautiful when I win a case.”

  Vilma frowns into the pot on the stove, disapproving. Roberto doesn’t notice. He jokes with Vilma as she prepares our dinner, kosher Cuban steak with onions, rice, and beans and plantains.

  “Smells incredible,” he says, patting Vilma on the back. He dips a fork into the beans and samples them, leaning past her. He brings his fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. “Incredible.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, cariño, I have to go pee-pee,” I say, smiling. The smell of the steak frying sends me to the bathroom again. I shut the door, and run the water
to cover the sounds I make over the toilet.

  WHEN I FEEL better, I search for Roberto and the boys and find them in the media room. Roberto crawls on all fours on the plush carpet, with Seth on his back. Jonah sits to the side and watches with serious eyes.

  “What are you crazy kids doing?” I say.

  “Are you kidding?” Roberto says. “We’re cowboys and Indians! My boys are the greatest! Olvídalo.”

  I flop onto the couch, and Jonah climbs into my lap. He sits on his knees, facing me, and puts a finger to my lips, concern creasing his tiny brows.

  “Are you okay, Mommy?” he whispers.

  “Of course,” I lie. I kiss his cheek. “Go play with your father.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Jonah! Get.” I lift him off my lap and push him toward Roberto.

  Vilma serves us dinner in the kitchen, instead of the dining room, because Roberto wants to watch the local news to see if they’ve covered his big win. He works for Fidelity Investments, and the case has been in the news for months.

  The boys eat their dinner and tease each other, and our nanny retreats to her room to read and use the Internet to talk to her friends back in Switzerland. I take a few bites of beans, struggle to keep them down. Vilma notices that I’m not feeling well. She offers me some more crackers. Roberto does not notice. He is chewing with his mouth open, one hand on his belly and the other pointing the remote and flipping the channels on the TV on the counter.

  There are a few commercials, and then the local nightly news begins. I look at the television, and can’t believe my eyes. There, on the screen, is our house.

  Our house.

  The camera moves and focuses on Elizabeth’s truck, in our driveway. The reporter starts to talk about how the recently “outed” newscaster for the rival station had taken a crazy zigzag route to this “luxurious house in Brookline, near the Chestnut Hill Reservoir” after “crowds” of out-of-state religious protesters and reporters scared her this morning.

  Roberto drops the remote to the floor with a clatter. His fist lands on the table.

  The reporter looks down at her notes, then says that public records show the house registered to Roberto J. Asís, “a prominent local attorney involved in the controversial Fidelity Investments lawsuit that’s been in the news recently.”