When We Were Outlaws

by Jeanne Cordova

  Through the glass between our offices, I saw Penny thrust a phone into an agent’s hand. “Call my publisher, right now!” I heard my demure Chief scream. “Make a formal request.”

  Frantically, I unlocked my bottom drawer, grabbed the tape rack, threw my denim jacket over it, and crept down the hall behind Tom’s huge blocking frame.

  Instinct made me turn toward the never-used back stairwell. It led to nothing but the distribution department’s endless stacks of back issues…and a small cargo door that opened to the alley. Tom had to know it too. Distribution staff met me with frightened eyes. Bryan stepped into the alley. Bless Penny who must have briefed him in advance about the only possible escape route.

  Bryan handed me keys. “Tom says to take his car. They’re watching yours in the front lot. Penny says don’t come back until she calls you.”

  “Thanks Bryan. ” I released the cargo door as it snap-locked behind me. Jumping behind the wheel of Thompson’s sorry brown Dodge, I stoked the ignition and put it in drive, fleeing east down Hollywood Boulevard into Silverlake.

  Protecting a Nazi was not on my flight path as a reason to flee the FBI. Joe would go down soon, my gut told me. In the meantime, I had to defend the freedom of the press. Under our Nixonian government the press was often the only “power to the people” avenue left to us.

  Chapter 19

  The Falling

  [Los Angeles]

  Early July, 1975

  Our mood was playful as we plopped back into Rachel’s bed. We’d awakened early to take a joint shift on the picket line, but she’d lured me into cancelling the day’s meetings and coming back to Effie Street on her day off by promising a matinee movie and dinner—like normal lesbians on a weekend. It had taken a few months, but Rachel and I had finally found a consistent groove with intimate time together, although I suspected that she still wanted more.

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing you in the daytime.” Rachel bounced on the bed. “And I have you all to myself!”

  I smiled, loving the way her face radiated with happiness. A fleeting thought burned in the back of my mind. It was a Saturday. Rachel didn’t know I was supposed to go home to BeJo tonight. I’d resolved to push our afternoon until early evening.

  “You’re in a lovely mood,” I said, leaning back against the mountains of pillows. “Any particular reason?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Her voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. When I nodded, her eyes twinkled and her mouth puckered, like a cat that had swallowed a canary. “The night before last Pody and I did a guerilla action against GCSC!”

  I lit a cigarette. “What kind of action?”

  “I was having dinner with Pody at the Saloon,” she began. “All she could talk about was BeJo, BeJo, BeJo. Is it true that you gave her permission to date BeJo?”

  I saw a twinkle in Rachel’s eyes. She was happy BeJo was dating. “Yes, it’s true. Except now Pody wants to join The Tide Collective. That’s pushing things too far since I don’t hear any commitment to lesbian journalism from her. But let’s not change the subject, what was your surreptitious action?”

  “It was Pody’s idea.” Rachel squirmed on the bed. “She’s furious about losing her job and GCSC contesting our unemployment checks. As am I.”

  “Go on.”

  “And we started talking about Lillene Fifield. About how the Center is now saying to the community, ‘See, we do have women’s programming, we even have a new Director of Women’s Programs.’”

  “And…?”

  “It was early. We decided to drive to GCSC. She said she knew what kind of car chief scab drove, and where the higher-ups at the Center parked.”

  “What in the name of the goddess did you do at GCSC?” I demanded, my voice strained.

  “We were angry!” Rachel said. “Maybe we had one too many beers. Lillene deserved it. She’s the only lesbian who’s crossed the picket line and taken a job. One of our jobs!”

  “What did you do, Rachel?”

  “We let the air out of some of their tires in GCSC’s rear parking lot, the one in back of the building. Pody knew which cars belonged to which people.”

  “Damn! It’s a damn good thing nobody saw you, and —”

  “That’s not all we did,” Rachel interrupted.

  I sat up straighter. “There’s more?”

  “We slashed the tires on Lillene Fifield’s car. I stood guard; Pody brought a strong knife…from the Saloon. She stabbed the tires. All four of them.”

  “Score one for our side!” My right fist shot up, clenched, saluting the incendiary political posters on Rachel’s bedroom wall. For a moment I wished I had been with them.

  “Then you think it’s okay?” Rachel asked. “I wasn’t going to tell you. Pody said to keep it secret.”

  “You damn well better keep it to yourselves,” I replied, hearing my tone change. I stabbed out my cigarette and got out of bed. The thrill of excitement had evaporated. I wished Rachel hadn’t told me her news.

  “We told a few of the other strikers. They want to do more…”

  “Christ, Rachel, don’t tell me about others! You and Pody were damn lucky a cop car didn’t spot you. It would look very fucked up in print: GCSC Strikers Resort to Vandalism.”

  “I’m sure no one saw us.” Rachel’s voice was small.

  I started to pace. In my gut, something didn’t feel right.

  “They can’t prove anything if no one saw us.” Rachel crinkled herself into a small package on the bed.

  I studied her face, afraid for her, and for myself. She certainly was a newbie. Word would soon leak out—there were no secrets in political fights—and people might think that June or I put Rachel and Pody up to this.

  I came back to bed and took her hands in mine. “Rachel, promise me that this will be the last time you give in to personal outrage. Personalizing our issues with property violation will take the focus off our valid goals. I thought you understood that.”

  “Of course.” Rachel was huffy.

  “Tell Pody I said to cease and desist!”

  “I just didn’t think about it that. No more guerilla actions.”

  “None,” I said gently, as I left her and started to pace again. “Something about this strike feels out of whack to me. Like the injunction coming so quickly. The Board of Directors always seems to know who is doing what and what we’re thinking. It’s as if someone tells them what moves we’re about to make.”

  “What are you saying, Jeanne?”

  “I’m wondering if there isn’t an agent provocateur among the strikers or the unnamed ‘supporters’ who show up at our meetings. What do we know about them?”

  Rachel sat up. “I thought we all knew each other.”

  “Only by first name. What if there was a government agent sent to GCSC to get himself employed, just like Nixon sent agents into civil rights organizations like the Students for a Democratic Society and Viet Nam Vets against the War? And he, or even she, is provoking the strike? If you look at the strike’s potential to destroy the Center, and if I was the FBI wanting to get rid of this radical hotbed of dykes and fags, I might send someone in there to try to implode it from the inside out.”

  Rachel stared at me in shock.

  “What do we really know about each other’s backgrounds? There are a lot of people in this fight who I don’t recognize from past movement campaigns.”

  “Like who?” she asked.

  “What do you or I know about Pody or June or Dixie? And that Colin McQueen. Have you seen he always carries the same sign on the picket line? Even takes it home with him. The one that says, Shut it down or we’ll burn it down.

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  Rachel’s timid voice snapped me out of my thought process. I had been mostly talking aloud to myself. Looking at her, I frowned, realizing, perhaps too late, that I was more familiar with the atmosphere of paranoid hostility unleashed by the Viet Nam War and the Civil Rights movements. Every night on
the news political fugitives and feminists were being arrested. The FBI had just captured two lesbians on their wanted list, Susan Saxe and Katherine Powers; they were still hunting for the kidnapped newspaper heiress, Patricia Hearst.

  I put out my cigarette and lay down beside her. “I don’t mean to scare you.” I stroked her forehead.

  Rachel started laying kisses on my face. “You can provoke my body with very little effort,” she murmured. “Does that make you my own personal agent provocateur?”

  I lay on top of her and smiled as I fingered her lips. “If I am your special agent, I’m not undercover, and it’s no secret. When Delene saw me in my bathrobe that morning she nearly choked. I’m sure she’s told everyone by now.”

  Rachel unbuttoned my shirt and brought her lips to my chest. “My boss at the Saloon also knows about you and me.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “She doesn’t like that her employees talk about the politics of GCSC all day. Or that her staff voted not to serve any of the scabs. She says politics is bad for business.”

  “So, she doesn’t like that I’m politically influencing you…”

  “No,” she said and she played with my hair. “But the staff not wanting any scabs in the restaurant, that had nothing to do with you.”

  Having no allies for our relationship felt threatening, but I didn’t want to worry Rachel with more problems. Especially not now.

  I slid off her long enough to pry open her blouse buttons. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not having a three-way with Colleen,” I joked as I held Rachel’s breasts and massaged her nipples. An urgent rush tingled up from my feet to my groin. My mind shut down.

  She murmured, “I love you, Jeanne, more than the storybooks speak of love.”

  I forgot about Nixon, agents, employers, and the movie we were supposed to see. Making love to Rachel felt like reading a book with no last page.

  I awoke to the smell of our sweat mixed together, a scent that made me want her all over again. Turning over in bed to find her, I instead found empty space next to me. The room felt hot and closed. It felt like early evening.

  “Rachel?” I called out, suddenly afraid. “Where are you, Rachel?” I called more loudly. A dimly remembered panic seized me. The anxiousness felt old, the vacant space beside me haunting. The place beside you has always been empty, a frightened child-voice said inside me.

  That’s not true, I answered the voice. Rachel is here. She’s probably sitting out on the back porch. Go, look for her.

  She’s left you, the scared voice repeated.

  “Get a grip, Córdova!” I demanded aloud, my voice filled the room and bounced back to me.

  I willed my body to break out of its paralytic state. Sitting up, I found my jeans, put my legs into them and hurried to the back porch stairway. No one. I circled back through the living room and out the kitchen door. The driveway was empty; Rachel’s old blue Buick was gone. Coming back into the kitchen, I closed the door behind me. My breath came in fast, shallow gasps.

  She’s gone! the child voice repeated.

  I opened the kitchen door again, inhaling the smell of the grass, the dirt and the trees. I told myself, Get a Coke from the fridge and go sit outside on Rachel’s back porch. Yes, that’s exactly the right thing to do. Watch the last rays of sunset. Lying around in bed had simply disoriented me.

  I looked for a glass in Rachel’s cabinet. There on the sink. A yellow legal pad with a note from Rachel. I grabbed it.

  Hello Jeanne. I went to the store for groceries. Thought I would make dinner for us tonight. See you soon! Love you now! Rachel.

  My breathing slowed down. Told you so, I chided the panicked voice inside. Rachel was here all along. Standing barefoot in the kitchen, I realized I couldn’t leave Rachel, not tonight, no matter what day of the week it was.

  I made myself a Coke with ice, and quickly I called BeJo. Thank the goddess for that new invention, the answering machine, and the fact that BeJo was working late this afternoon. I left a message, telling her I was at Rachel’s and not feeling well. I didn’t want to make the long drive home to Culver City tonight. I would see her tomorrow.

  As I explored Rachel’s house, waiting for her to return from shopping, I realized that staying tonight would be the first full day I’d spent with Rachel. First waking up together. Then the picket line. Then coming back home to Effie Street. Home to Effie Street. The thought made me happy, although I realized my concept of where home was had shifted from BeJo’s to Rachel’s in the space of a day. More slippage.

  I grabbed a soda and took myself out to the back porch to watch the sunset. As I turned on the hose to water her potted plants, it came to me how much I’d needed a haven in my life and had found it here at Effie Street with her. Yes, I purposefully didn’t call or stay connected when I wasn’t with her because I didn’t want to bring the rest of my life here. My activist life was about fighting for the freedom and dignity of my people, my tribe. Yet, my world with Rachel was about peace and safety, about personally getting filled up. Deep down I feared that if my two worlds came together I might have to choose between them. Looking up, I saw gold and orange-laced cloud strata settling behind the clay roofs. There was no way to integrate my intimacy with Rachel and still keep my life’s commitment. And I couldn’t abandon either one. It was best to keep my two worlds compartmentalized. Today I’d allowed myself a rare exception. Even I had a right to be an indolent speck on the map of life for one twenty-four hour day.

  Another hour passed and Rachel still hadn’t returned. The backfire of freeway trucks sounded in the distance. A chill had sprung up. I listened to my breathing. Once more it had become anxious and shallow. Rachel will return any minute, I told myself, buttoning my shirt at its collar. Sometimes I got “the panic” at night when I woke up alone. Somehow I didn’t believe I was real unless someone lay beside me verifying my existence. How long did it take to buy tomatoes and potatoes? I should go and look for her. Yet, I had no idea where the nearest market was. Under my parents’ roof, chores had included an endless amount of dish-washing, ironing, and scrubbing the floors, but my mother had never taught us to shop or cook. There was barely enough time in the day for my mother to clothe, feed, and bed so many of us. Certainly there was no time to indulge in the luxury of culinary skill-sharing or bedtime stories or any kind of touchy-feely love.

  She distributed her maternal love in between the short supply and high demand for her attention. I rarely saw her in the mornings during the mad scramble for school. To brush my teeth I had to shove my way into the bathroom, stumble over bodies, and throw a sibling or two into the bathtub. We were assured that Mom loved us by looking in our lunch boxes and finding an extra Hostess cupcake.

  By high school I’d given up interpreting desserts as Mom’s love. But I never gave up waiting every night for her to walk into my bedroom and tuck me in. Lying in bed, I would pull the sheets over my head, curl into a ball, and pray a rosary of the same words. Just wait a little bit longer. She’ll come. Tonight, I’m sure she’ll come. Close your eyes and wish for it strong enough. Once every few months, when the babies in the nursery had fallen asleep early, and no one else had a fever or a broken arm, my mother did come into the bedroom that I shared with my older sister. On those rare nights, she’d sit on the side of our double bed and ask Dominica and me what we’d learned in school. Dominica would spout about undiscovered planets in the solar system and I would tell Mom that I’d hit a homer or pitched a no-hitter. Mom didn’t know much about the stars or softball, but on those rare all-alone nights she’d sit with us attentively as though we were the only two children in her universe. My mother was a lady, a woman who wore gloves and hat to church and never made a public display of emotion. But on those rare nights she’d break rank and lean over our bed to kiss us goodnight. Her long black curls would fall on my face as she’d peck our foreheads, admonishing, “Don’t cause each other any more trouble tonight. Let’s not sleep with your bat, Jeanne. Dominica, gi
ve me that book. Now close your eyes nicely my little ones. Let the angels sing in your heads and take you to heaven for the night.”

  Then, she’d be gone—until next semester or so—and I’d save my stories for the next time she’d return. As we grew older, Dominica and I had learned to tuck each other in at night as we debated why girls could not be Presidents, and whether or not the universe really had large black holes that sucked the life out of everything.

  I tilted my Coke back and sucked the last drops dry. Ah Dominica, I whispered to myself, I hope you’re doing better at this love thing than I am.

  Shadows filtered through the palm fronds on Effie’s downward slope. I felt wetness on my face and reached up to brush the tears off my cheeks. The pink and gray streaked marble slab that formed the homework desk in my childhood bedroom, the waiting room, was all too vivid. In the years since the angels had sung to us, Dominica had grown up to become a professional space explorer. Neither of us had married. I wondered if we’d both spent too much of our lives building invincible shields against wanting something that we couldn’t have.

  The marine layer’s chill was progressing so I went inside just as the kitchen door opened. Rachel smiled from ear to ear. “I forgot how crowded markets are on weekends. How does pasta sound to you?” she said, putting the groceries on the table.

  Rachel and I ate pasta and made love all night, our first domestic evening together. I woke at dawn with a feeling of complete piece of mind. Studying her profile beside me in bed, I wondered, why Rachel? She was entirely dissimilar from my usual call to arms: she was not a stunner like Charlotte, nor blessed with Sharon’s dramatic personality, Gayle’s charm, or BeJo’s grounded common sense. Rachel had a fragility I found unnerving. Yet I was inexplicably drawn to protect her. Somehow it was becoming hard to deny she was everything I wanted. Was this called falling in love?

  The thought jolted me and I sat up suddenly and pulled away from my sleeping lover. My stomach raced into a weightless descent. I felt like a satellite knocked out of orbit, falling through space, dizzy with joy. But the operative verb was falling.