by Lee Lynch
Sundays shone always, even when the weather tried to dim them. She loved crossing town to walk in the park with Ginger. Glowing light shirt, blue jeans, Ginger in loose purples and blues. Years and years of Sundays ahead of them, exploring, lolling, part of the scene, happening on festivals, ball games, lovers. Sunning on the rocks, lesbian reptiles, they called themselves in their early years. Jefferson would climb a tree, Ginger would run off, she’d race to catch up and usually find her at the zoo. They’d buy ice cream, spend a while talking to the animals, everyone smiling around their streak of youth and beauty.
And dancing. Humming and dancing on the paths, on the Great Lawn, Sheep’s Meadow. Dancing past the cabs at Eighty-sixth Street, dancing on the bridges, dancing in the fountain, dancing with the Alice in Wonderland statues. It felt like they were still making love Sundays when they used to go out, wherever they went. It was always summer on Sundays, even when they ice-skated at the rink.
She tried not to think about that weekday she came home early and the lovely light-skinned boy Ginger danced with came out of the bedroom. He’d been trying on Ginger’s outfits to dance a women’s part in a drag ballet. She wouldn’t go to see the ballet with Ginger. She’d felt something wrong there. Felt some airy attraction between them. It was the curse of infidelity, she learned that day, to suspect, to worry, to have adoration turn to jealousy in a moment and never go away.
She thought she wanted no walls. But she put them up as often as Ginger, and she didn’t know how to knock them down. Clouds over their park, spoiled juice on Sundays. She’d block it from her mind till she saw Ginger flirting with the fairies at a bar. What did she expect? Ginger’s father and little brothers doted on her growing up—she still liked the attention of men. That didn’t mean she wanted to be with one, that Jefferson wasn’t enough.
She’d given Ginger everything she had. Except for the times she frittered it all away.
Maybe she should give it up. Let him have her Ginger. It was obvious that’s what Ginger wanted. She shook her head, buzzed the door for Gabby, or Amaretto, to let her in. In the elevator she thought that what Ginger wanted wasn’t obvious at all. She had known this woman—if she had known her at all—for thirty years, and nothing about Ginger had signaled this move. Unless she was looking for someone who would—could—appreciate being loved. Unless she was tired of Jefferson’s resistance.
Gabby’s partner Amaretto was a nonstop creative person, a costume designer by trade, and she had run out of room to display her crafts in their Brooklyn apartment. The walls were hung with masks, the floors dotted with costumes on dressmakers’ forms, the furniture draped with patches of remnants that would have made great selections in a fabric shop. Gabby had a big blue recliner and a wide-screen TV. She aimed the remote at a Yankees game and turned the set off, lowering the recliner at the same time.
Amaretto and Gabby had both grown heavy over the years of inventive cooking they did for each other and for their friends. They were known as the gourmet cooks of the crowd. They had a warm, indulgent, laughing relationship and were always bubbling over each other’s words and stories. Gabby had stopped drinking before Jefferson—maybe that had made a difference.
“Is that new?” she asked Gabby.
“No,” Gabby replied. “I bought it when it first came out in ’97. Amaretto had it framed for my birthday.”
They stood arm in arm under a NY Liberty Team Show Stoppers poster.
“This is almost as nice as the Lavender Julies Softball poster Angela’s Tam made up at the print shop,” she teased.
Gabby laughed. “I don’t know how you stand to look at that thing on your wall.”
“What a roster,” Jefferson said. “Sophia Witherspoon, Kym Hampton, Teresa Weatherspoon—Rebecca Lobo!” These were breathtaking athletes. “Too bad our team is—”
“Sucky.”
“That’s not true anymore,” Amaretto called over the kitchen counter where Jefferson had heard her loading dishes and glasses into the dishwasher with an occasional clink. Now Amaretto switched on the dishwasher and the apartment filled with the sound of rushing water.
“They were losing for so long,” Gabby complained.
Jefferson had to stop herself from saying, “They’re not the only ones.” She was remembering all the times she came home from teaching or coaching and Ginger was home too, working in the kitchen, lying on the couch listening to music, or even watching the evening news. Each time it had given her a sense of permanency and rootedness she longed to hold on to forever. Her grand nemesis, her Achilles heel, was herself, so unable to give up cheating. What could she do to make up for that? She had offered more than once to support Ginger. She had the interest from her grandparents’ trust fund to supplement her teaching salary.
Of course Ginger had declined. She had always clung to her independence as if afraid that Jefferson wanted to quash it. She thought she loved Ginger’s independence. Maybe Ginger had sensed something about her that she didn’t know.
She almost laughed to think of all she didn’t understand about Ginger. How she adored wearing fancy flip-flops at home. And god-awful plastic shoes to parties or the bar. They were still in Ginger’s closet, an exasperating part of Ginger she’d never understood, but loved. Ginger had taken to sneaking new shoes into the house because Jefferson always laughed at the sight of them. Pinks and purples and lime green and coral. Flowered and strapped and sometimes rhinestone-studded. She’d tease Ginger about having drag-queen feet, but she shouldn’t have. To her, the shoes were a femme decoration that filled her with amused appreciation, but to Ginger, this must be the way she coddled her feet, treated them for their gracefulness and coordination and pain. A dancer’s feet were her glory and foundation.
“Yo, Jef, where’d you go?” Gabby said.
“Sorry. I was remembering.”
“Lunch is made,” Amaretto said. “Enough for all of us.”
“Thank you.” She gave Amaretto an enthusiastic hug. “But I don’t know where we’re going.”
“Not Jersey City?” Gabby asked.
“There’s an office for JONAH, but I couldn’t find a street address.”
Amaretto said, “That leaves us with the Paras’ summer place.”
“Up the Hudson. In Treadwell.”
“We’ll ask around,” Amaretto said. “If we don’t find anything, we’ve had a nice picnic outing up the Hudson.”
“I checked an online phone book. Nothing listed for Para. Who knows if that’s even the parents’ name.”
She’d rented a car for the day, and Gabby had to explore it thoroughly before getting in. “You think we’re going off-road?” Gabby asked.
“I have no clue. I rented the SUV in case.”
“Man, I hope so. We’re ready for it. Am, can we have one of these some day?”
“Sure, after you drag me to Cartier to buy me a diamond ring.”
“This would be more practical.”
Amaretto laughed. “In Wyoming.”
“Isn’t that over the county line?”
“Yo, did you catch my girl Mariska on the tube this week?”
Amaretto laughed. “Here comes the Law and Order: SVU fan club,” she said.
“Hey, Gab,” Jefferson teased, “I could watch Hargitay all night, every night, but D’Onofrio and Erbe are sooo much cooler in Criminal Intent. They actually think.” And the two were off on their usual running argument about the merits of the shows.
Bantering with these friends made the drive very much like going on a picnic, and Jefferson actually found herself taking pleasure in the ride—when she wasn’t worrying about what they would find in Treadwell. If they learned where the Paras’ place was and if Ginger was there, then what? Would she barge in to interrupt them in bed? Her girl’s hands on someone else? No, she didn’t want to see that. Sit in a living room talking about it? She would be speechless. Slit Mitchell’s tires and leave hate notes?
She remembered the night she went to see a performance Gi
nger was producing. Ginger was taking money at the door. Between sales, Jefferson said, “You told me I’d have to stop drinking for you to stay. I’ve stopped. Come home with me tonight.”
Ginger had slept at her parents’ apartment all week. Jefferson couldn’t even remember now which transgression it had been that had driven Ginger out. Jefferson had been spending her evenings at AA meetings and going out for coffee with other alcoholics.
The pain in Ginger’s eyes was wringing her heart. She’d been about to say something and Jefferson saw her curl forward over her pain. She was going to say no forever this time. “I don’t want to live without you, Ginger. You’re the one I’m supposed to be with.”
She’d thought the man who’d approached them was trying to slip past Ginger. He put a hand on Ginger’s shoulder and Jefferson tensed, ready to throw it off if Ginger gave the slightest sign of fear.
The man spoke. “Who’s this, babe?” He turned Ginger toward him with his big hand.
Ginger’s look of pain turned to sadness, a vast and agonized sadness that offered no hope for Jefferson.
“Oh, no,” Jefferson said in a hoarse voice she’d never heard herself use before. She’d been standing on a fragile cliff and now fell. Her heart, her soul, her hopes were far from the safe branches she sped past. Ginger bent her head in confirmation and walked off with the man.
Still in free fall, Jefferson couldn’t look away from the sight of Ginger and the man, willed her body to be still, the body that only understood movement. If she did move, it would be true and the fall would go on and on. She’d rather live with this paralysis than live without Ginger, go on into life with the knowledge of what Ginger might have done, an incurable anguish that led her, once again, to the comfort of Irish whiskey.
Later, Ginger assured her that the man was one of the backers of the performance, a friend and a dance instructor like herself. She believed Ginger, but she knew what she’d seen, knew that Ginger had been a dance step away from trying to find with the man what she had not found with Jefferson. She blamed herself and had no idea how to stop her cycle of transgressions.
“Jef,” Gabby said sharply. “The exit.” She turned to exchange a glance with Amaretto.
“No, I’m not avoiding the exit. The memories—I don’t know how to block out the memories,” Jefferson told them with a small laugh. In truth, her hands were cold and her jaw a little sore from tension. She hadn’t wanted to relive that scene today, or ever. She’d gone back to AA and Ginger had returned to her again.
Treadwell turned out to be a town built on recreational pursuits. Between the river and a state park, there were boat ramps, bait shops, and summer bungalows; a few motels and bed-and-breakfasts, campgrounds and trailer parks. The summer traffic was like driving in a pot of glue—they couldn’t get out of it. The downtown consisted of four blocks ranged around a small square of green with a playground. They spotted a hardware shop, a T-shirt store, three real-estate offices, a tiny post office, several antique shops, a drugstore and gift shop, and a gas station and convenience store combined.
“Where’s the sign, ‘This way to the Paras’ summer place’?” Gabby asked Jefferson.
It was a weekday. Jefferson had taken off because Gabby and Amaretto both worked most weekends. They found the town hall on the other side of the gas station, but the whole place was shut down for the noon hour. While Jefferson and Gabby discussed what to do until one thirty, Amaretto walked into the nearest real-estate office and chitchatted the guy into telling them the Paras had a small place overlooking the river north on the main street.
“You’re the femme,” she told Amaretto. “You can charm them, can get the job done. I don’t see why you stay with us.”
“Butches are irresistible,” Gabby said.
“Obviously that doesn’t apply to all of us.”
Gabby sighed beside her as Jefferson went around the block and headed north.
“We’re kind of nice at home anyway. Out in a crowd, sometimes I feel bad for Am, having to introduce me instead of the handsome hunk she could have on her arm.”
“Take that back, sweet-butt. You are my handsome hunk.”
Gabby smiled. “All I’m saying is, you femmes could have it easier if you switched to their side. Maybe Ginger, you know, wants to take the easy way out for a season or two.”
“Hey, Gab, Gab,” she said, tapping Gabby’s thigh. “That’s not how you treat the people you love.”
“I know. She must be crazy. I mean, really, like a screw came loose.” Gabby peered at Jefferson. “I never would have thought Ginger would do this in a million years. I can’t get over it. I mean it makes me think if she would, then—”
“No,” Amaretto assured Gabby. “Not if you beat me. Not if you ran around on me. Not if you insisted on doing all the cooking.”
“I don’t guess we’ll have to test you, then,” Gabby said. “But, listen, Jef, whatever pushed her over the edge, I am so sorry.”
She sighed and nodded. Tears threatened her eyes.
“He said to watch for the super-tall hedge along the road—there,” Amaretto said, pointing left. Jefferson drove slowly past, unable to see anything beyond the wall of green.
“These people are into privacy,” Gabby noted. Jefferson had pulled ahead of the traffic and now slowed at a driveway. “Not as much privacy as Mitchell’s brother described. I don’t see a gate or a glass-topped wall. What a liar,” she said, coming to a stop. The driveway cut back on the other side of the thick and carefully barbered hedges. “We would have seen more if we’d rented a boat.”
“And a periscope,” Gabby added.
“Do I have to do everything for you two butches? Drive up the driveway.”
Gabby loudly sucked in her breath. “What if they’re there?”
Amaretto twisted her neck to look at Gabby. “Honey-baby, what if they’re not?”
Jefferson turned in and followed the graveled drive.
“Can’t you stop that crunching?” Gabby complained. “They’ll hear us.”
But the house was perched half a lot away, right over the river, and a raucous helicopter made its way upstate, following the course of the water. The noonday sun highlighted the house, making even its forest green siding bright. She stopped the SUV before rounding the next corner. Did this place remind Ginger of their times on the lake in New Hampshire? Did this man make life half as sweet as it had been for them in the early years? Did Ginger know she was tearing the skin off Jefferson’s heart?
The lake had been a still place, peace radiating. The river here never stopped. It was tidal this close to the Atlantic, running north, south, north again, running, running, running. Like a dancer, like an athlete, the river was all about movement.
“Jefferson?” Amaretto asked.
“In a game,” she answered, “you have to know when to run for the base, the basket, the ball, and when to stop and watch.” The pain was incredible, even worse than 9/11. She’d have to go. Leave the apartment, leave her job, leave the city, leave her friends behind and go where thoughts of Ginger weren’t as common as streetlights.
No one was at the house. There was no garage, no car in the driveway. A phone book lay on the porch in its dirty plastic wrapper, and last fall’s leaves were bunched against the front door where it looked as if they’d huddled all winter. She put the car in reverse. She was both relieved and disappointed. “Let’s find a spot by the river and have our picnic there.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Was there anyone lonelier than a lesbian on her own at a men’s bar on a cold night, Jefferson wondered. Then she answered herself: yes, there was. It was a lesbian listening to the hum of a microwave oven, glass platform rotating under a Lean Cuisine for one. She’d had to get out of the apartment.
She’d managed to get the last stool at the end of the bar where she could see this whole room and the entryway everyone would have to pass through to get to the dance floor upstairs. She didn’t know how many men’s bars there
were in the city, or what her chances were of finding Mitch, or someone who knew Mitch, but her friends had found nothing. She’d been cruising for him nearly every night for the past two and a half weeks. He wouldn’t be able to stay away from other men, no matter what was going on between him and Ginger. Mitch adored men, spent every penny he had on them, and talked incessantly about his heartthrobs, current and past.
She’d tipped the bartenders well with each soft drink she ordered, but none had opened up about having seen Mitch. For a while, her search had kept her hope alive, but tonight she questioned why she was bothering.
Because you love her, she told herself. Because you want to catch him, she heard her mind admit. Catch him and, what, expose him to Ginger? When she really examined her motive, though, she knew it had more to do with some kind of ownership. Ginger was hers, body and soul. She would find her and get her to return. She needed Ginger. Without her Jefferson feared becoming a cipher in the city. For all of her absence from Jefferson’s life, Ginger was central to all she did. Sure, she was free now to do anything or see anyone she wanted to, but Ginger had acted all of these years as a springboard, the home fire, an anchor, her main point of reference.
She might have done her laundry alone, but some things of Ginger’s were always mixed in with her own. She might have eaten dinner alone, but she always cooked extra for Ginger to eat when she got in from work, or she ate what Ginger had not. Ginger was the center of her life. She’d considered posting her picture among the others at Ground Zero, because that’s still how she felt, like a disaster had hit.
The next bar was no more promising so she changed tacks and went back out in the bitter cold to a mixed place on the East Side. For all she knew, Ginger and Mitch both went to the bars. Or were into threesomes. Or never went out at all.
She slopped some of her soda when the guy said hello. Looking behind, she confirmed that she didn’t know this short, pudgy, older African American man.