by Aliyat Lecky
Richard understood more than she figured. He didn’t have the specifics, but he did know his wife. This was not an intervention at all. This was an ambush.
“Damn it, Richard. Say something for Christ’s sake!” Helen pleaded again, this time with her husband. Helen was standing on a precipice. Below her, a treacherous current emptied into uncertain seas. Behind her, tranquil land. A life safe and certain.
Richard stood before her as the easy answer, and the potential rescue with the power to steer her course. She was ready to give hegemony to him for the sake of her family. She was ready to ask forgiveness and continue however he decided was best. Yet he was impassive and unwilling.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, except that I’d like my wife back. Maybe what you need is to see a counselor. Get therapy?” His words were sincere.
Helen had heard enough. Richard didn’t want to hear the truth. He only wanted what he wanted. More specifically, he wanted her back to her old self. What she wanted didn’t matter. What she needed was never a consideration. He wanted action. For Helen to begin to act right. Right for him was not good for her—in fact, it had never been. She had compromised her own moral code by negotiating what she thought was an acceptable loss. As Helen stood toe to toe with Richard, her greatest compromise, whom she did love, and had loved deeply, she realized that the life she traded away and bargained for was perhaps not worth the price.
“Helen, I agree with Sydney. It feels as though you’ve checked out of this life I have given you.” Richard couldn’t have chosen words that were more injurious. It was as though he pushed Helen off the cliff.
Helen left the house without saying another word. Only after she reached the car and had safely backed into the street did she allow any emotional release. She pulled over on the side of the road and began to weep. No longer able to force back the deluge of emotion, it burst free from its place tucked away behind memories and forfeited happiness.
***
“ANGIE, WHEN YOU get this message, give me a call.” Helen left the last of a series of messages for her best friend. She stared at the traffic buzzing past her favorite window seat for a while longer before she remembered that Angie was in New York meeting with her publishers to renegotiate her contract. Helen checked her watch. By now, she had signed a lucrative deal, and was celebrating privately with Orlando. Helen knew what that meant for those two—sex and champagne. Those two could celebrate at the drop of a hat. Helen had always envied Angie for that.
With her and Richard, sex was always so much work. Richard seemed to enjoy it. Of course, there were times when she had enjoyed the sex—at least, the intimacy of the act. Richard had always been a patient, gentle lover. Sometimes she wished he were not so polite about lovemaking, or that he always seemed to ask permission simply to touch her. She supposed that somewhere deep inside he knew he could not satisfy her needs, and was contrite for that reason.
“Are you going to order, or are you waiting for your young girlfriend to arrive before you do?” Magda smiled cruelly down at Helen.
“Go away, Magda.” Helen sniffed back tears.
“What’s wrong, pretty Helen?”
“I’m really tired. I don’t feel like company.” Helen had grown accustomed to Magda’s half-flirty half-vicious assaults. Whenever Magda spotted Helen alone, she would swoop down upon her, her talons sharpened with some cynical remark about her dress, the company she was keeping, or she would comment about Helen wasting her time with someone too young for her. Once or twice, Helen was certain she detected a hint of jealousy in Magda’s remark. Then there was the rare occasion, like now, Magda seemed genuinely concerned for Helen’s sour mood.
“Helen, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were upset. Can I get you something?” Magda sat opposite Helen without bothering to wait for an invitation. She caressed Helen’s hand with her own. With the other, she reached into her apron pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. Helen hadn’t realized her emotional state was so obvious.
“Thanks. Not many people use these anymore.” Helen hated feeling vulnerable. She stared at the small cotton cloth, pretending to study the beautiful detail, and hoping to avoid meeting Magda’s concerned expression. “It’s lovely. Did you embroider this yourself?” She turned the handkerchief in her hands slowly to examine the intricate design stitched in each corner.
“Yes.” Magda blushed. “It’s a hobby of mine.” She stood to leave. “I’ll send you a sweet over. I believe we have a tres leche scone hidden somewhere in the back.” She smiled. “Another one of Mom’s brilliant concoctions. Honestly, we can’t keep them in stock. Those and the caramel rolls.” Magda threw another concerned look toward Helen. “And coffee, I think. Strong and black. Looks like you could use a jolt.”
Helen smiled appreciatively. “Oh, Magda, your handkerchief.”
“You keep it.” Magda didn’t turn to face her. “You may need an example when you explain to young Miss Noami what a handkerchief is.” She added over her shoulder as she walked toward the kitchen.
Helen chose to ignore her departing jab. She ran her fingers along the delicate gold thread, following the intricate pattern that must have taken Magda hours to complete. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the new arrival until she was seated opposite her.
“Magda sent this out to you.” Mom set the drink and scone down on the table between them. “What’s got you down? Care to talk about it?”
Helen considered her options. Angie was out of town. Noami’s advice would be biased by guilt or self-interest. She was avoiding her parents. Mom was dependable, discreet, and honest. Helen needed honesty. She needed to talk to someone who wasn’t too close to the situation.
“Have you ever considered that you might be a lesbian?” Helen surprised herself with the question. “Both your daughters are lesbians. You spend so much time with…” Helen did not know how to complete the thought.
“With?” Mom urged.
“Lesbians.”
“You know, it’s funny, I never thought much about it at all.”
“No?” Helen eyed her suspiciously. She had only spent a fraction of the time that Mom had spent in the company of lesbians, and she could think of little else.
“No.” Mom’s answer was succinct and sure. “Why do you ask?” It was Mom’s turn to return the favor. A wary expression took hold of her face. “What’s this all about? Noami?”
At the mention of her name, Helen’s whole disposition brightened. “Just forget I asked.” Helen wanted to change the subject.
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I think so, Helen.” The dawning of understanding spread across Mom’s face. “Helen, tell me something…” Mom paused as she pushed back, settling comfortably in her chair. “Why is it that you believe you have been thinking about lesbians? I mean, have you thought about why it’s on your mind?”
“Well, I’m a married woman of more than twenty years who has found herself extremely attracted to another woman, whom I think about all the time. I suppose anyone in my position would wonder if that makes her a lesbian or not.” Helen had not meant to sound flippant, but found that she could answer the question honestly in no other way. She wanted to be guileless with Mom because she wanted her frankness.
“I suppose you could define yourself that way if you feel compelled to, but why would you?”
“Pardon me?”
“Helen, why do you have to be one or the other? Think about it.”
“You mean lesbian or straight?” Helen was not quite sure she understood Mom’s meaning. “You think I’m bisexual?”
“Only you know that. Helen, tell me something. Why do you have to label yourself at all? Why can’t you simply be Helen, a woman who loves and has desires?”
Now Helen was certain she didn’t understand what Mom was talking about. “I don’t get what you’re saying.” Helen sat back in her seat, so fascinated by what was being posited, that any tenseness that had previ
ously kept her sitting on the edge of her seat was melted away.
“What I am saying, Helen is that sexuality is a social construct.” Mom chuckled at Helen’s reaction. “Don’t believe, Helen, that Huey from The Boondocks is the only African-American who knows what a social construct is.”
Helen looked at Mom as though she was seeing her for the first time, aware rather suddenly, that she had made some assumptions about the older woman. She had certainly underestimated mom. Not because of race, rather because of the generation to which she belonged. Although she had no idea who Huey was, or where in the boondocks he lived, she nodded, urging Mom to say more.
“The word homosexuality, and definitely heterosexuality, are labels invented by some frightened, small-minded egotist. Probably a Euro-American male whose only real contribution to society was to contribute to exclusivity and to further divide the us’s and the them’s.” Mom took a sip of her tea. “And by the way, you don’t have to buy into those labels, or define yourself by them. You can simply choose to be a woman who is interested in being happy and loving herself most and best of all.”
Helen didn’t know how to respond.
“I imagine, Helen, finding a label for yourself is the least of your concerns. That’s not why Magda sent me out here. She said you were crying. Is everything okay? I’m here if you need to talk.”
Helen looked once more into Mom’s brown orbs. She was such a good and wise person. She began cautiously. She didn’t want to misrepresent what she was feeling. “Consider the implications of the question you just asked me. I’m married. I have children. I also have an interest in another person, who I’m not married to.”
“So?”
“So? What do you mean ‘so’?”
“I mean, so, what next? Alternatively, so what else? Helen, that happens all the time. You make a decision, and you move on. On the other hand, you remain where you are. How would your situation be any different if Noami was a man? That’s what I guess I mean by, ‘so’.” Mom’s comment was punctuated by a small shrug.
“You can’t be serious?”
“Can’t I? What am I missing that makes your situation so different from everybody else who finds themselves having to make a difficult decision? I’m not saying your decision is easy, I’m saying your problem is not unique.”
“How many people do you know who have my problem?”
“More than you know. You believe your situation is so unique because you refused to stop defining yourself by someone else’s standards. The question you need to ask yourself is how have you framed the problem? Are you thinking about your issue as one created by a social construction, or one where you have to make a decision that is best for the people involved, which include you first and foremost? In other words, is it about figuring out what your sexuality is, or about what you need? That second question is easily answered if you ignore the first, which you should, because it does not exist, not really.” Mom calmly took another sip from her cup.
Helen, on the other hand, was utterly confused. She began slowly, talking through her confusion. “Are you saying that I don’t have reason to be upset? Are you saying that my choice is easy?”
“Oh, no. Not easy, but yours. If I have learned anything these seventy-something years I’ve lived, is that all my best decisions are made with me at the heart of them. You have to love yourself before you can love others, and living a life for anyone else other than yourself will only lead to disaster. So will finding yourself in a position where you have given up your right to make choices, and others make them for you. You know. Emotional blackmail. Ultimatums. Demands of sorts. Things like that.” Mom stood to leave.
Helen looked down at the half-eaten scone Magda had sent to make her feel better. Mom had been picking at it while she doled out her sage guidance. Helen watched her departing back as she walked back to answer a call that had come from the kitchen. She had been helpful. Sydney and David loved her. They would come to understand her in the end. Richard was an entirely different subject altogether, but the dilemma between her and Richard was entirely irreconcilable. The truth was—and this was what Helen had finally come to recognize—that her choice was clear. His happiness, or hers.
TWELVE
HELEN MADE THE only decision she could. She was grateful for her choice as she sat next to Noami on their return flight from her book tour. She had been traveling for nearly three weeks when Noami joined her in San Francisco for the last four days of her trip. They had spent so much time on the phone talking, that Helen thought it silly not to have her with her. Besides, she missed not seeing Noami. Hearing her each evening and saying their goodnights became too much. Helen finally invited Noami to join her during her first evening alone in the Bay Area. All the stories Noami had shared about growing up in Oakland cropped up in her mind vividly as she traveled around the metropolitan area via the BART system.
When she first asked Noami to join her, she misinterpreted Noami’s silence on the line as rejection, however, Noami quickly put those concerns to rest by expressing her excitement about the trip. What Helen mistook as an awkward silence before rejection was actually due to Noami putting the phone down momentarily to retrieve her calendar, then to race back across the room. Noami wanted to check to make sure she had no appointments she needed to change before she replied. Noami admitted that she had hoped she would be invited to join Helen, but wanted the invitation to come from Helen without any pressure.
They explored the cities by daylight, enjoyed the sunsets in each other’s embrace, and spent their evenings exploring every inch of their bodies during lovemaking, often until the sun rose, and opting to sleep in each other’s arms until midday when Helen had to leave to fulfill her contractual obligations. The time they spent exploring the Bay Area was fun. With the exception of the time Helen spent with her readers at bookstore signing tables, or on talk shows hawking her book, they spent all of their time together. One highlight was an evening out in Berkeley when they attended a dance performance at the university that featured Jason Emanuel Britton. His dance with scarves was inspiring. His choreography and interchange with the long vibrant material was both seductive and seemed to almost embody their blooming relationship. The play and dance of his movement symbolized so much of what they shared.
On the plane ride home, Helen thought about nothing else other than the wonderful time she spent with Noami. She rested her head comfortably on Noami’s shoulder, watching the flight attendant flirt with the man across the aisle. Helen was reminded vaguely of her return flight from a book engagement the previous spring. She had felt so differently on that last flight. She looked into Noami’s enchanting face and received a deep, warm kiss for her trouble. Noami tasted like purple, again. She had been eating Violets, a dainty, violet-infused breath mint that she was never without.
Helen smiled at herself. She had wondered where Noami had found the Violets. As far as she knew, you couldn’t buy the little Pez-shaped candies any more, but Noami always had a pack in her purse. The memory of how she had finally asked Noami where she acquired them brought a broad smile to her face and a gentle quiver in her lower abdomen.
On the night Noami arrived, her purse was opened on the table in their hotel suite. “Where on Earth do you find those Violets?” Helen had merely asked as a stalling tactic, because she was nervous. “I didn’t know you could get them anymore.”
Noami didn’t bother to answer. She simply closed her mouth over Helen’s offering her a taste of violet. For her part Helen inhaled purple deeply, craving more. Helen was not sure what Noami was expecting, however, she hoped they wanted the same from their trip—to finally consummate their relationship. As it turns out, they wanted exactly the same from their excursion. A fact confirmed for Helen as Noami pulled her lacey panties gently down past the sheer black stockings she had decided to wear that evening because she remembered that Noami had expressed her distaste for pantyhose.
“Noami…” Helen tensed. Noami’s move, although gentle
, was sudden.
“Relax, Hels.” Noami’s soft hand covered Helen’s breast. Her warm violet breath against her neck was reassuring and calming. Helen closed her eyes. Her head fell back. Noami moved diligently to the other breast. Helen’s hands entangled themselves in her lover’s thick hair. Noami’s hair had always been one of the things she liked about her. Dark hair had always begged for her attention, but since Noami had begun to let hers grow, she played in it as often as she could. Noami stepped away from Helen. Standing in the middle of the room, she slowly pulled the straps of Helen’s short dress over her shoulders, but Helen hung on to it for dear life.
“I'll never get used to seeing you like this. You are…beautiful.” Noami’s lips and teeth nipped along her neck and shoulder trailing the path of the slender strap.
“Do you think I want more, Helen?” Noami murmured as she continued her ministrations. “You're delicious.” Noami nipped at Helen’s collar bone as she gathered her tightly around the waist and guided her close to the bed. Helen was lost in Noami’s care until she felt the sudden chill of cool air as Noami ripped away the dress she used to shield her body. Noami moaned as it fell away from Helen’s body. Once a breast was revealed she took Helen’s flesh into her mouth and began to roll the nipple between her tongue and teeth. Helen cried out and arched her body against Noami’s face, further pushing her full breast into her mouth. When she finally opened her eyes, she gazed into Noami’s hot sincere ones. Her lips met Noami’s and she spoke gently against her mouth before Noami engulfed her with her passion. “I want you Noami…” Whatever was next was lost as Noami’s tongue parted her lips and devoured her.