Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  “I’m not perfect, Rachel. I’m scared, too. I’m sure of us. But I was sure then, too.”

  “Hey—you keep doing what you’re doing. I’m not going anywhere. I know we’re not going to be all sunshine and wildflowers. We’ll hit bumps in the road. But if you have questions, ask. If you have problems, say so.” I laugh a little. “Like you said in Portland: We won’t give up without trying our hardest. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, and we seal the intention with a kiss.

  

  Jaye is not completely back to her usual bubbly self when we pull up the driveway to Toni and Paula’s place. They live in a newer subdivision between Denver and the airport, on a three-acre lot with a rambling ranch house. Toni insisted on living out on the flatlands east of I-25 because it reminded her of the Texas prairie where she grew up. Paula, a military brat who’s lived everywhere but Antarctica, didn’t care. Their view of the mountains is good, but not as good as mine.

  We exit the car and walk hand in hand to the front door, her grip threatening my circulation. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous.”

  “Meeting ‘mega-protective big sisters’ might have something to do with that.”

  I ring the doorbell. “Be yourself,” I tell her, “and give as good as you get with Toni. You’ll do fine.”

  “ ‘Give as good as I get?’ What are you talking about?”

  The front door opens before I can answer. Toni greets us. She’s not tall, and she’s a little on the chunky side, but her bearing exudes confidence and self-assured ease. She eyes Jaye up and down as I make the intro-ductions.

  “So,” she says, “you’re the sexy young soccer player.”

  Jaye blushes. I don’t.

  “Stop!” I say to Toni, giving her a scowl of warning. I guide Jaye past her and into the house.

  Toni is unapologetic. She closes the door and follows us in. “I’m only quoting you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Ah, right. I was incomplete. You used the phrase ‘hot and sexy young soccer player.’.”

  Jaye smiles weakly, and thank goodness Paula appears before us. She’s a little taller than her wife, her soft curves countering Toni’s sharp edges. Some women are obviously butch or femme; Paula sits right in the middle, a bit androgynous but definitely female, graceful and polished and far more diplomatic than her partner.

  “Jaye, how nice to meet you,” she says, sweetly, smoothly taking the bottle of wine Jaye holds in her hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen and get acquainted. I think Toni and Rachel have some book business to take care of before we eat. Ten minutes, you two.”

  As soon as they round the corner, I lay into Toni. “Are you going to behave or will we have to leave early?”

  “Paula made the Hungarian soup.”

  Paula Harrington’s Hungarian mushroom soup is the absolute best edible thing ever created in the galaxy, the only vegetarian dish I would cross a trackless desert for. That she made it for us tonight means she truly wants to welcome Jaye, which is wonderful. But it also means Toni can get away with some bad behavior because she knows I won’t leave until the soup has been consumed to the last atom.

  Toni smirks in victory and heads down the hall to her office. I follow quietly, but not meekly. I have a trump card to play.

  “You still have to be nice, or you’ll never get Triangle’s happy ending.”

  She stops. Turns around. “Speaking the truth about someone’s sexiness is nice. I bet you haven’t had time to write the ending.”

  Like an Old West gunslinger, I pull the flash drive out of my pocket. “Au contraire, O publisher of mine.” Toni raises an eyebrow. “I even did some revision on the key love scene, so bonus.”

  The smirk returns. “That, I can believe,” Toni says as she holds her hand out.

  I move the flash drive out of reach. “Best behavior?”

  Toni gives me a curt nod and takes the drive. Before we leave the room, I throw out one last admonition.

  “Jaye is the good woman you wanted me to find, okay? Don’t make me regret bringing her here.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Toni says, and on that comforting-but-ambiguous statement, we are off to eat.

  

  The soup is a religious experience. My gastronomic senses go into a paroxysm of pleasure when the first succulent spoonful hits my mouth, and I send up a prayer of thanks to the Universe that I’ve been blessed to experience such good fortune. Fresh-baked sourdough bread accompanies Paula’s master dish, complementing the soup’s flavor perfectly.

  Jaye likes it, too. “This is amazing,” she says to Paula, and, other than me asking for seconds, those are about the only words spoken until this first course is done.

  Paula knows I will be happy making the soup my main meal, but in deference to her other guest, she has also prepared some baked chicken and vegetables. Jaye digs into those with a healthy appreciation and more compliments. The usual get-to-know-you small talk begins to flourish. Jaye finds out Toni and Paula met in college and have been together for thirty-plus years, are both happy with what they do, but will be equally happy to retire to Texas once Paula is eligible.

  Jaye tells them about falling in love with soccer, relates a few tales about the places she’s seen, and the people she’s met. I sit quietly and listen, pleased to see my friends and my lover getting along.

  We’re almost through the main course and totally lulled into a false sense of security when Paula launches a surprise attack.

  “So, Jaye,” Paula says casually, “you’re living with your best friend.”

  “And her partner, yes. It’s a good arrangement.”

  “I gather there’s not a lot of money in soccer?”

  My early-warning system pings softly. I cast a quizzical glance at Paula.

  “You can make a living,” Jaye replies, not seeing anything wrong with the question. “But unless you’re at the top, on the US National Team, you have to work hard at it.”

  “And she does,” I chime in, with enough sharpness in my tone to let Paula know I’m paying attention. “Jaye helps Kath Nickerson with her off-season soccer camps and some other stuff.”

  “But eventually your playing days will end,” Paula says. “What are your plans then?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Jaye says cheerfully. “I’m hoping to play another five years or so. I’ll worry about it when I have to.”

  “I take it you like the grasshopper attitude?”

  Jaye hesitates for a moment, her fork halfway between plate and mouth. Then she takes her bite, chews and swallows while my now-narrow-eyed stare loads up and shoots daggers at Paula.

  “Actually,” Jaye says when her mouth is not full, “Becky Kaisershot’s husband, Rick, is a financial genius. When I have some extra money, he invests it for me. I’m not going to be rich, but I’ve got a nest egg to fall back on when the time comes.”

  Jaye and I have not yet discussed finances, so I had no idea about this. But yes! I think when I hear it. Take that, Paula!

  I decide to rip the curtain off this little charade. “Okay, Toni,” I say, turning my dagger eyes to her. “You can go next now in the Rachel’s Girlfriend Inquisition.”

  Paula has the grace to appear abashed. Toni, damn her, takes my words as permission and dives right in. “The Internet says you and Nickerson were lovers once. Are you still?”

  I drop my soup spoon, ready to explode. Before I can say anything Jaye’s hand slips below the table and grips my thigh, keeping me quiet. For the moment.

  “Wow,” she says, perfectly calmly. “You get right to the point.”

  “Being blunt tends to get answers,” Toni says matter-of-factly.

  Jaye says, “The Internet is wrong. Nickory and I never dated, and we never slept together. I wanted to once, but she met Bree, her partner, and that was that. I got over it.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. True f
riends support each other through thick and thin. Nickory’s done that for me, and I try to do the same for her.” Jaye cuts up the last of her chicken. “Like you’re doing for Rachel, right?”

  Jaye says this with complete, casual innocence. Toni appears confused for a second.

  “I mean, Rachel’s such a great writer, she must be making you a ton of money. So of course you’re overpaying her?”

  Now I’m confused. Toni and I stare at Jaye blankly while she blithely finishes the last of her chicken.

  Paula, meanwhile, bursts out laughing. “Oh, kid,” she says to Jaye when she can catch a breath. “You’re good. Well played!”

  Toni is still clueless, but I watch Jaye give Paula a soft fist bump and I get a glimmer.

  “You set this up!?” I exclaim.

  “Darn right we did.” Paula stands and starts gathering our empty dishes. “It took me thirty seconds of conversation in the kitchen to figure out Jaye’s the real deal. I knew Toni was going to give her the third degree, so I told Jaye to follow my lead and she did. Nicely done!”

  She disappears into the kitchen. Jaye smiles at me and pats my thigh. Toni sits very still. I can tell she’s angry at being fooled. But I can also tell she knows she has to own some of it. She sits there thinking, coming to terms with it, then says about what I thought she might.

  “You’ve got spirit,” she tells Jaye, “and you get all the benefit of my doubt. But if you hurt Rachel, if you break her heart, I will hunt you down and haunt you ’til the end of your days.”

  “Fair enough,” Jaye says.

  Paula swings back through the kitchen door holding the dessert wine we brought with us. “Honestly, Toni,” she says. “Your whole tough Texan thing is such a cliché. Can we change the subject now?”

  

  “When did you guys meet Rachel?” Jaye asks. We’re enjoying the after-dinner wine, comfortably seated around the table, all tension gone.

  “I actually met Paula first.”

  “And it’s a good story,” Paula says. She glances at me. “May I?”

  Jaye’s eyes light up, and I defer.

  Paula sips her wine, and begins. “I came to Denver TRACON—that’s the air traffic control facility—as a newly-promoted supervisor. I’d managed to drag Toni out of Houston, and we moved here not knowing anybody. My first day I walk into the control room and see ten people: eight guys, one woman, and one person whose gender I cannot immediately discern.”

  “I wore my hair super short that year,” I say.

  “As soon as our eyes met, though, the gaydar pinged, and I knew I’d met family. Not that she let on, of course. That first week I learned Rachel showed up on time, never complained about sector assignments, and was good at the job. Everything else was a blank. I tried dropping some hints, but she never took them. Then one day, one of the guys made a reference to Texas, and I found out she was from there. I mentioned that my partner Toni was from Texas, and it went right over Rachel’s head.”

  I say, “The name Toni was far too ambiguous for me to go there.”

  Paula rolls her eyes. “I was about to give up when Jesse Tannehill came back from vacation.”

  “JT was TRACON’s resident asshole,” I tell Jaye.

  Paula talks right on over me. “JT walked into the control room, saw me and Rachel at the desk, and said, ‘So it’s true? We’re changing the name to Dyke TRACON instead of Denver TRACON?’ He said it loud enough for everyone to hear. The controllers on sector, who were all men by the way, stopped talking, and the room went dead quiet. I sat there, speechless, but Rachel stared JT down like she was the sheriff and he a pissant little cowboy. Then she said ‘Well, I’d rather be one of the dykes than the worst controller in the building.’”

  Jaye grins at me in pleased surprise.

  “You could hear a pin drop,” Paula says. “Until Brian Jones laughed and said ‘Call the fire trucks, Tannehill, because you’ve been burned!’ Everybody laughed, except for Rachel, who was still in sheriff mode. JT turned around and left the room. I knew then I was going to have trouble with him—but I also knew I would make a friend of Rachel.”

  “And here we are,” I say.

  “Was he that bad a controller?” Jaye asks.

  Paula grimaces. “Oh, yeah. Life got so much better when he transferred to Cleveland Center.”

  “Where he couldn’t check out,” I say, “so they transferred him again to some little tower on Lake Erie. And he had to take a pay cut.”

  “Karma’s a bitch,” Paula says.

  “And a blessing,” Toni adds. “If it wasn’t for Paula you’d never have read The Fyrequeene.”

  Of course Jaye wants to hear this story, too.

  “We’re working a mid-shift, the eleven to seven, Rachel, and Beatle and I,” Paula begins, but Jaye cuts her off.

  “Beatle?”

  “Brian Jones,” I tell her.

  Paula nods. “Because Brian Jones was a Rolling Stone.”

  Before Jaye can go deeper down this rabbit hole, Toni touches Jaye’s arm. “Don’t even try to understand ATC nicknames. Quit while you’re behind, and let Paula keep talking.”

  Jaye, bemused, obeys.

  Paula says, “Three-thirty a.m., nothing going on, and I did a walk through the room to make sure all was well. Rachel’s sitting at her sector with a notebook in front of her, scribbling like mad. I asked her what she was working on, and after some hemming and hawing, she tells me it’s a Xena story.”

  Jaye’s face lights up. “Which one?”

  Paula says, “The sequel to something called Follow the Blood.”

  “Popskull.”

  “Eventually, yes,” Paula says. “I asked her if she’d ever written anything else, and she says her fanfic is on a Xena website. I go back to my desk, hunt it down, read Follow the Blood, then go tell her Toni publishes lesbian fiction, and she’d definitely be interested in The Fyrequeene’s work.”

  “And,” Toni says, “after a couple of years of her hemming and hawing, I finally got a book out of Rachel and a star was born.”

  Jaye smiles at me proudly and raises her wine glass in salute. Toni watches this, staring at Jaye until she notices and gazes back.

  “I’m glad she moved faster with you,” Toni says. We gape at her in surprise. “And for the record, she’s never complained about her royalties.”

  Chapter Seven

  Fyrequeene’s Blog: June 2

  “Flight of Fancy”

  “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, sings the tunes without words, and never stops at all.”

  ~Emily Dickinson

  I do not by any means claim to be the writer Emily Dickinson was, but I feel like we have a couple of things in common. She was an introvert, as am I. She had a few people close to her in her life, as do I. She never married, as I never have. And we both write, though her talents and insights far, far surpass mine.

  I came across the quote above a few months ago, and since then one particular phrase has taken up residence in my mind. Chop off everything else Dickinson said, and consider “the thing with feathers.” Lots of things have feathers. The ancient dinosaurs, certain hairstyles, birds… I focus on the birds. As I’ve aged I find myself more and more appreciative of birdsong. Something about the music of the birds brings me great comfort. Perhaps it’s what I perceive as simple innocence. Birds sing to mate, I know, but often I hallucinate that they sing because it’s so damn much fun. Even the simplest two-note chirp is expressive, and whatever the birds are expressing resonates with me. The “tunes without words” do indeed “perch in my soul.” If such is also hope, then I’m glad it’s there.

  In one of my darker moments I once asked for hope to leave me. I believed living without hope meant I would be doing things instead of simply dreaming of doing things, but I was wrong. Living without hope brought me so low, I almost didn’t survive. I will never banish hope again. It perches in my soul, yes, but r
ecently hope has expanded its horizons, taking up residence in my life as a whole. I have visions of fully engaging in the world, not simply existing in it. I have visions of fulfilling my purpose here, whatever such purpose may be, not simply marking the days until I die. I have visions of happiness, not merely grateful contentment for a life with little conflict. I have not only hope, but high hope. Though I once tried to reject it, “the thing with feathers” deigned to stay, never stopped singing at all, and at last came to fruition.

  

  I take Jaye to the airport early Tuesday morning, come back, and hit the swimming pool for an hour. If it helps ease the sharp ache of her absence, it’s not enough to notice. The hollowness of missing her is almost a living, breathing thing.

  Back at my house, after my swim, I try to find something to do. I stand in the loft, thinking how Jaye liked the idea of making the loft into the bedroom. I end up spending the morning completely rearranging my second floor. Lamp, reading chair and side table are moved into the bedroom, while the bed gets disassembled and put together again in the loft. When I get it all done I put fresh sheets on the mattress and clamber in, recline against the headboard, and stare at the mountains. I watch them change color as thunder clouds build up above them. The sight is beautiful, and my mind goes peacefully still as I watch.

  Actually, the peace doesn’t last for more than a few seconds. My mind never shuts up, ever. But the mélange of thoughts and images swirls through like a lazy Southern creek versus Class V rapids.

  A lazy Southern creek, wrapping itself around Jaye. Her eyes as she watches me, her smile as we talk, the incredible tenderness of her touch, the things we’re learning about each other. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, except for the distance.

  “I want to completely change your life,” Jaye had said in Portland. Less than a month later—

  Mission accomplished. For the first time in my life, I know I am in love. And with someone who might be in love with me.