Beggar of Love

by Lee Lynch

  “Why is it that the teachers liked by students are always the ones butting heads with the administration?” she asked.

  “Jef, you’ve always been in trouble no matter where you taught.”

  She scoffed. “That was because I kind of had attendance problems. Since I stopped drinking, I seem to, I don’t know, get all contrary when they tell me what to do. It’s like they’re in it to make themselves feel more important, not to teach the kids.”

  Ginger closed her eyes and smiled. “I’m glad I had enough saved to indulge in this long vacation.”

  “And health insurance through your group.”

  “It’s almost time to go back to work so I don’t lose it. Not to mention that there are so many people on our waiting list for classes I may never get to all of them teaching till I’m eighty,” Ginger said, with a sad look on her face.

  “And you will,” Jefferson said with a smile of certainty. There had been all kinds of cancer in Ginger’s family, but only one uncle who had, as her parents put it, dropped dead. They’d never known the cause for sure, but now thought he must have had what Ginger was having, this aneurysm thing. The family saw one another through the tough times and went back to work. Her father and brothers thought they were invincible. Ginger liked to say that anyone who had survived her mother, a stiff, pert-looking, sharp-tongued woman, had to be invincible. Her father, as good as his word, had snuck into their retirement fund to get Ginger the rest of the seed money she’d needed to buttress Jefferson’s investment, to start her dance school. When Mrs. Quinn found out, she went and stayed with her sister’s family in Woodside for six months, leaving her husband and her bachelor son to cook and clean and shop for themselves. For sure Ginger had inherited her mother’s unbreakable will.

  On the trip back to the Jeffersons’ house the afternoon breeze broke the water into a million moving facets of light, like diamonds floating everywhere. They didn’t speak and there was no sound but wooden paddle and water. Although it felt more like she was stirring a thick pudding than pulling through water, she knew it was she who was stirred up. The Jefferson place came into view, set like a monument in its nest of great cedars, balsam firs, sugar maples, and white pines at the top of the green slope of lawn. The sight always made her think entering heaven could not feel better.

  The cottage, really too large for a cottage, but that’s what her family had always called it, was freshly painted white with a screened-in front porch and gray roofing. It had two bedrooms, although in the summer, Jefferson usually used the cot on the porch. The sun would wake her, its rays reaching between the trees to touch her face and eyelids. If she had to define happiness, it was a place, this place, for her. Finches and sparrows sang early morning songs. Whenever she came up here she wondered why she lived in the city, but of course she knew why. The lakes region was short on gay life. There were no Café Femmes softball teams to coach. No gay friends she’d known forever.

  She guided the canoe into the boathouse and held it steady while Ginger climbed onto the wooden walkway that lay between Mr. Jefferson’s powerboat and the racks where they stowed the canoe and the kayak. She attached hooks and touched the switch. Pulleys hoisted the canoe out of the water. She rolled the lake door down, then hurried out the dry door and locked it. Ginger sat on the brown wooden bench, her long hair wavy, thick, still mostly copper against the shade of the pines. Jefferson stood before her, offering her hands to pull Ginger up.

  Ginger seemed to hesitate at the bottom of the hill as they reached it, caught her breath, and started up. Jefferson lagged a half-step behind, slowing herself to Ginger’s decreasing pace. They’d gone about two-thirds of the way when Ginger stopped, swaying in place. Her voice was thin when she said, “Jef. I can’t. I can’t make it up this little hill.”

  “We can do it together,” Jefferson replied, all hope rolling back down the hillside, like a golf ball after a weak chip shot. Ginger had been so strong—why was this happening? “Or else,” she joked, “I’ll stick you in the wheelbarrow!” She put one arm around Ginger’s waist, the other under her elbow, so that she pushed and supported and steered. Resting a few feet on, she looked to the treetops and asked the goddess, her higher power, the universe—whatever—to give Ginger back her life, but she knew now, as they started their last awkward dance uphill, that Ginger was a step away from being wholly spirit. The touching they were doing at this moment was nothing like any she had felt before with Ginger, only with Glad.

  That night she lay in bed on the porch with two army blankets over her sleeping bag, yearning for Ginger. She wanted to crawl into bed with Ginger, who slept inside, and have Ginger hold her, hold her and maybe say something soothing or how sorry she was to have gone off to look for happiness in the wrong place when Jefferson came home to her once and for all, how she’d miss all the years they could have had together now, how she’d miss Jefferson and longed to stay, stay, stay, and then Jefferson would roll out of Ginger’s arms and hold her and say, but we have now, we have this minute, this night, and maybe tomorrow for perfect closeness, as close as I’ve ever been to you, to anyone, as close as I’ll ever want to be with anyone, and I can carry this time all the rest of my life and feel I’ve lived and loved well.

  But she never crawled into Ginger’s bed and Ginger never held her, never held her at all the way she’d longed for her to. Had Ginger been ready for that all these years and Jefferson not there to receive it? Ginger was her heaven, her afterlife, her universal love. Ginger had only been able to love her by staying through it all.

  On a drive the next day she told Ginger she had enough years with the school system and planned to retire. Whether she helped Ginger to live or to die, these last days or years would be Ginger’s and Ginger’s alone. A long time ago Ginger had told her she wanted her ashes spread here, under the pines. She would ask Ginger to stay at the lake with her, sell the dance school and live off the interest. Maybe they both could find some peace by the serene water while Ginger was alive. After that, well, she would have planted the shadow of the flower that was Ginger at the lake.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To Jefferson’s surprise, Ginger agreed to stay. She wasn’t ready to sell the school, and it paid her enough that she felt she was contributing to the household. Jefferson mailed in her resignation; her young substitute was a good teacher and wanted full-time work. They went back to the city once a month to see the doctor and so Ginger could claim she was teaching part-time and managing the business long-distance. Those trips wiped her out.

  It was as if Ginger was preparing herself for a final stillness and the quiet of afterward. She slept a great deal, of course, and when she was awake, Ginger lay motionless a lot of the time. She wanted no music and seemed perfectly content to walk slowly to the bench overlooking the lake on the cooler summer mornings. She said the green lawn and the blue lake water soothed her. Every night, Jefferson went to bed excited about their walk to the bench. She enjoyed every moment with Ginger; loved looking at her, loved helping her, loved making her life better, loved Ginger’s touch when she held on to Jefferson’s arm. How many more moments would they have?

  At Ginger’s insistence, she called Webbers, the local funeral parlor, in case. Ginger had explained what might go wrong post-surgery—loose stitching, not enough of the artery resected, a new aneurysm. If that happened, Ginger said, she might go very quickly. Russ Webber came out and made arrangements with them. All Ginger wanted was to be cremated before her parents got hold of her body and buried her in a box with some priest mumbling over her. Ginger had sent a copy of the paperwork to her brother Joseph and told him to say she loved them, but Mom and Dad were not to stop Jefferson from carrying out her wishes.

  Only once had the subject of Ginger’s time with Mitchell come up.

  “I’m sorry I caused you pain,” Ginger had offered. “I never had sex with him.”

  She nodded. “I thought—”

  “Oh, please. I could smell his men on him.”


  Her mouth filled with the taste of bile, and she got so hot she could feel sweat at her hairline. She could say nothing, only shook her head.

  “I felt sick and weak and disheartened and didn’t know it was this illness. I was afraid I’d been wrong all those lesbian years. I was sick in spirit. Then I realized that you were so much of my spirit I was even more sick without you.”

  She nodded in response. “It was my fault, Ginger.”

  Neither of them could say more. They went back to watching television, an old William Bendix movie neither had seen before.

  Mr. and Mrs. Quinn drove up one Saturday—the two brothers and their wives, the stay-at-home brother, and Ginger’s parents—with the five nieces and nephews, all somehow stuffed into Joseph’s old Suburban, the whole big Irish family. Ginger rallied and instructed Jefferson in roasting chickens and mashing potatoes. The frozen vegetables went into the microwave, and dessert was ice cream with fudge and marshmallow sauces out of jars. It had actually been fun, but Ginger got too tired. After that, Jefferson couldn’t imagine Ginger dancing again and knew Ginger wouldn’t want to live without dance.

  The third Friday of August, they went outside after Ginger’s afternoon nap. The pines shaded them while the sun scattered silver sequins atop the wind-chopped lake waters. She led Ginger to the bench and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. Ginger was getting a gray streak off to one side of her hair. When Jefferson commented on this, Ginger raised one hand, slowly, and laid it on Jefferson’s. It was four o’clock. They were in the long, sad decline of the day. Afterward, Jefferson wondered if Ginger had been practicing saying good-bye with that brief, cat’s paw of a touch. When Ginger moved her hand away she asked Jefferson for a little water. Jefferson had learned to keep a six-pack cooler iced on the porch and stepped inside the screen door to get a bottle.

  She moved around the bench to place the straw at Ginger’s mouth. A red bubble was growing between Ginger’s lips.

  “Ginger?”

  Ginger was staring toward the lake.

  “Ginger,” she insisted. “Oh, God.”

  Ginger gave a gurgling sort of cough and blood leapt from her mouth, down her chin, onto her lap.

  Quickly, without thinking, Jefferson grabbed Ginger under the arms and laid her on the grass, turning her head sideways to keep her from choking on the blood. She touched Ginger’s cheek and asked, “Ginger, are you still with me?” There was no response. Her other hand had already pulled out her cell phone and, despite all her practice out of Ginger’s sight, she fumbled and dialed 999, then 411, and finally 911 and heard herself yell for assistance at her address.

  “Hold, please. Stay on the line.”

  The pause seemed so long she was about to hang up and call back.

  “Is that the Jeffersons’ place?” the operator asked when she returned.

  “You know it?”

  The operator gave instructions to the ambulance, then answered, “I’ve been to parties there.”

  Oh, great, she thought. Who knows what went on. “Can you get me some help? We’re around back.”

  “What’s happening?” the woman asked.

  “Ginger—she’s recovering from surgery for an aneurysm. She vomited blood. Her abdomen is really swollen. I think she’s going.”

  “Passed on?”

  Without me, she realized. She’s sending me away and bowing out without me. Jefferson knew she deserved nothing better, but hadn’t she made up for some of the grief she’d caused Ginger? Ginger had left her again. She was gone for good.

  She stopped herself. This was not about her. Ginger was dying here, or was she really already—

  Her voice was dry, rasping. “She’s bluish and cool to the touch.”

  The operator wanted to know if Ginger was breathing. “But don’t do CPR.”

  She couldn’t, with the blood continuing to run out of Ginger’s poor soft mouth. “I can’t find her pulse.”

  “Do you have a blanket? She’ll be in shock.”

  It was so hard to look into Ginger’s eyes and think she probably saw nothing now. “A lap throw. I’ve got her lying on it on the ground. Wait, I’m lifting her legs up to the bench. She’s so cold and clammy.”

  “The medics are on their way, hon.”

  She felt as alone as she’d ever felt. “Ginger? You’re the love of my life. You fill my world. You—” Why hadn’t she found these things before? “You’ll always be with me,” she whispered. “It’s okay to go now. What if you couldn’t dance?” So fast she almost didn’t know she’d thought it, she considered all the time and energy Ginger would have to give her if she couldn’t dance, but said, “I’ll love you wherever you are.”

  She caught sight of the mail boat on its way into the harbor. Ginger’s eyes stared toward it. They’d always talked about taking a ride on the bigger mail boat over on Winnipesaukee, but never had, and here was the little Saturday Lake mail boat, a reminder of everyday life going on and on without Ginger, without time to be together the way they could have been and no one on the boat aware that Jefferson’s world was shredding.

  A siren wailed, coming along the curve of the lake.

  “Any sign of life?” the operator was asking.

  “No!” she yelled toward the phone, which lay on the pine needles next to Ginger. “Sorry, Ginger. I have to see what’s going on inside your mouth again.” It sounded silly as she said it, as she heard a vehicle approach. It was that she wanted, wanted, wanted her girl. She mopped more blood out and set her lips to Ginger’s, tasting her dear lips tinged with metallic blood, thinking that this was the last kiss, their death kiss.

  Two medics rushed to Ginger. “Is there someone who can be with you?” one of them asked, after confirming that Ginger was gone.

  She only wanted to be with Ginger. “No.”

  She lingered over this task, crying as she worked, cleaning Ginger up as best she could after the medics had taken her inside and laid her on the red-and-black checkered bedspread. They told Jefferson to call Webbers.

  This was going too fast, she thought. “Can’t I keep her tonight?” But she knew that was senseless. In the silent vacuum of the emergency vehicle’s departure, nothing was left but Ginger’s paisley flip-flops, splayed on the ground where they had fallen.

  What would be good about now would be a drink, but she’d lost her taste for drinking altogether. Her drinking had killed Ginger, hadn’t it? She wondered if Ginger had found out who she really was: a creature of Jefferson’s definition or some new butterfly never before captured and too fragile to survive.

  Jefferson called Joseph. He would go over and tell the rest of the Quinns. She set out Ginger’s new dance outfit, the black leotard and sparkly blue gossamer wrap, before she called Webbers. She and Ginger had picked it up on one of their trips to the city, an unspoken understanding between them of its purpose.

  That night she called Lily Ann and asked her to tell their friends. She had the wild thought of calling Angela, back in Dutchess, but didn’t, of course. She didn’t want to tell Emmy and Jarvy. Not tonight. What she wanted was to tell Ginger. To have Ginger say, “There, there, there,” and hold her, rock her, make love with her until sleep melded them together with the contentment only warm, sated bodies and glad hearts can know. Wasn’t that all she’d ever wanted?

  Chapter Thirty

  Jefferson wouldn’t let her friends help her finish her move north.

  “Wait till I get settled in and then come to visit,” she insisted.

  She drove up on a Monday. Wet fallen leaves, gold and brown, green and red, lay everywhere on the parkways. Ginger’s belongings were still in the guest room at the apartment. A small moving truck was bringing what she would need. She preferred the simple camp furniture at the lake to most of the pieces she and Ginger had collected, but her computer, iPod docking station, clothing, photos, sports gear, and books, her bicycle—she could not live without them. Whew, she kept saying to herself as she little by little decided what she’d n
eed and what she could let go. She’d wondered if dying was something like this, letting it all go, offloading the heavy accumulations of the years and drifting away.

  Retiring at forty-eight was the craziest thing she’d ever done sober, but she knew she was right to get out of Dodge. Ever since she’d stopped drinking and started on the depression medication, the same old same old wasn’t doing it for her. She’d probably partly bored Ginger into leaving. No more impulsive excursions out to the bars, no more disappearing all night, no more skulking around the apartment hungover and cranky.

  Before Ginger left with Mitchell, their lives had become serene and routine. They had gone to Café Femmes together, but with only a bottle of sparkling water in her hands, she’d felt left out. All those dykes downing alcohol, content to yell at one another over the music, to dance dirty in front of the whole world—had she lived like that? As the women got more and more drunk, they seemed to become different people: the loud ones got louder, the quiet ones more withdrawn. And young! Had she and her friends ever looked this young? There was something ugly about the sight of these children playing at adult activities. Ugliest of all was the sight of a young lesbian blitzed out of her mind. She’d thought of herself as suave, urbane; au contraire, she realized, she’d been a bleary-eyed, stumbling drunk, slack-smiled, and, like these tipsy butches, boring beyond belief. Some nights when they bestirred themselves to go downtown and see their friends, she started to yawn before she left the house. More and more often she and Ginger veered into the video store on the way to the subway and returned home with a chick flick, made popcorn, and fell asleep thirty minutes before the end of the movie. Was she still Jefferson without Irish whiskey?

  That first official night after she moved into the cottage, she made a fire. Grandfather Jefferson had built the fireplace with the help of a local stonemason, using small slabs of granite, a couple with embedded smoky quartz, garnet, and crystal gathered from nearby fields when the cottage was built back in the 1930s, others brought from her grandparents’ Dutchess land. When people started building around them, the accessible rocks had mostly been used, so Grandfather had put up a four-rail fence with bracing, low enough for the deer and moose to get in and out, open enough for the bunnies and other little guys to pass under.