Derby Day dawned as brightly as anyone could wish. Before the telephone rang, Margaret and Paulette were awakened by the shocking amount of light streaming into the room from around heavy drapes at the window.
Both women would have loved nothing more than to stay naked in bed, kissing and squeezing and tickling and fucking every trace of fear out of each other's warm bodies. They both imagined staging a Love-in for Peace. They both knew this couldn't be done, not while their role as representatives of their country was still controversial in itself.
Margaret and Paulette helped each other into the clothes they had picked out for the day's performance. Then they welcomed two members of Margaret's staff into their suite to attend to their hair and makeup.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, Paulette felt grateful to the young woman of student age who had magically improved her appearance. Paulette had never looked pretty to herself, but she had a polished look that surprised her. The mirror showed no trace of her anxiety or the persistent, low-level hunger in her cleft.
When Margaret and Paulette arrived at the racetrack, a band in 1913 uniforms struck up a lively version of “The March of the Women.” Paulette knew the words, and was tempted to sing along:
Shout, shout, up with your song! Cry with the wind for the dawn is breaking.*
The crowd was so huge that she gave up hope of picking out any threatening sounds or hostile vibes. She wondered if anyone could distinguish the sharp report of the starting gun at a horse race from the sound of an illicit gun which had no right to be there.
An all-female youth choir sang several patriotic songs. King Charles announced to the crowd that this day was definitely Ladies Day at the Derby, and his audience laughed politely. Queen Camilla expressed her gratitude to the stalwart women of the past, and to Emily Davison in particular, for sacrificing comfort and life itself for the rights of all women.
Margaret beamed on everyone in sight, much like the sun. Paulette was always impressed by the natural look of her smile on such occasions. Reginald Peek welcomed his Canadian counterpart and her lovely wife.
Argh! thought Paulette. I can't believe he actually said that.
He explained the historic occasion and remarked that those who can't keep up with the march of history are destined to fall behind. Paulette gave him a hard stare for a brief moment.
Margaret stepped confidently up to the microphone, and then it happened.
"Bloody bitches!” yelled a young man who surely hadn't intended to sound so hysterical or high-pitched. A collective masculine yell that sounded like “Hoy!” arose from a struggling knot of bodies in the young man's general vicinity, lower down in the stands.
A whisper spread through the group of dignitaries. A Canadian aide stepped close to Paulette. “Some guy with an explosive device was subdued by security. He seemed to be aiming at Prime Minister Crapper. They've got him under control."
Paulette glanced around at Reginald, and was amazed at what she saw. His face showed undisguised anguish, as though he cared deeply about Margaret's safety.
"My God! David!” he shouted before somewhat composing his expression. “This is all a mistake,” he stuttered to the circle of faces staring openly at him.
Paulette wondered if Reginald would be forced to leave office in disgrace, and she almost pitied him. Nothing he could possibly say to explain away his outburst would work. His mask had cracked, and all the King's horses and all the King's men could never put it together again.
A member of the royal staff announced to the crowd that there was no need for alarm because the saboteur was being removed from the scene. His presence was explained as a small glitch in the proceedings which a good-humored British crowd could overlook. The hordes of people seemed to agree.
Margaret spontaneously gave thanks for tight racetrack security and delivered her intended speech about the welfare of each and every person as a precious legacy. Even before she had finished speaking, Paulette knew that nothing else would disrupt the day's agenda. She didn't know how she knew that.
Pheromones and sunlight, she thought. I'm standing in the light, in smelling-distance of her, and that must be why I feel unreasonably optimistic.
Paulette wondered what historians of the future would make of the day's events. Some lucky researcher will discover the truth about David and Reginald, she thought. Once the dust has settled, someone will sort through the evidence and the tangled web of motives, including whatever source of pain caused young David to think that a woman elected as head of government in another country stands between him and whatever he wants: rights for men, personal freedom or just relief for his cock and balls. The personal is political, and the political is personal.
The warmth of the sun was hypnotic. Paulette relaxed, and reached for Margaret's competent right hand. She remembered that the world had always been a stage, and she realized that she could play the role of Consort as long as necessary. She felt herself smiling effortlessly. She knew that no one else could be in her place, feeling what she felt at this moment. She felt damn lucky.
* * * *
* From “The March of the Women,” marching hymn of the Women's Social and Political Union, words and music by Dame Ethel Smyth, 1911.
* * * *
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Chemistry
© Lisabet Sarai
Kit couldn't concentrate. She tried to force her mind back to the list of enzymatic cofactors scrolling by on her screen, but her thoughts kept evading the task, slipping away to her damned annoying neighbor. Well, not to him, exactly, but to his hands and his tongue and the things he did with them.
She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples against the first twinges of a headache. She saw kaleidoscopic lights, smelled cinnamon, cannabis, and male sweat. She felt the soft fur of his beard brushing over her bare pubis. A bolt of electricity shot through her, leaving her damp and breathless in its wake. Damn, damn, damn.
"Kit? Kit!” Jill was shaking her. Kit blinked stupidly at her friend. “Where were you, girl?"
"Oh, um, I was just working on the bilateral polymerization reaction. Trying to visualize how the radicals would align. What's up?"
"Lunch time. Want to come with me to the caf for a quick bite?"
"Um, I don't think so. Thought I'd go home for lunch. I left some notes there, and it's such a beautiful day. I could do with a walk.” Kit couldn't meet Jill's eyes. There were no notes.
"Well, suit yourself. But don't forget we've got staff at 1:30. Bittenger will be livid if you're late."
"I'll be there.” Kit grabbed her backpack and checked her watch. It was just noon. There might be time, if she hurried, if her neighbor was in and not too stoned, if she could keep him from talking and just get down to what they both wanted.
She didn't notice the sun-splashed river, the salty breeze, the couples sprawled on the new grass. She wallowed in self-disgust, disgust at her shallow lie and even more, at the weakness that kept calling her back to the lair of that infuriating, fascinating relic.
It had started on Saturday. Normally she would have spent the weekend with Todd, but he was in San Diego at a legal conference—or so he claimed. Anyway, she had tons of work to do, and to be honest, she relished the idea of some time on her own. Todd was supermodel handsome, rich by her standards, and had a body as toned as her own which he used with considerable skill. Sometimes, though, she wished he would be a bit less—precise. Kit was a scientist. She appreciated discipline and control. Todd carried this to such extremes that sometimes she didn't know if she was dating a man or a robot.
So Kit had spent Saturday working on her current big problem: the three dimensional structure of a protein that was strongly implicated in Alzheimer's. If she could only characterize the folds and associated bonds, then Theragenics could begin to design a pharmacologic agent to mimic its structure and functions.
She made good progress during the day and took a break at dusk to g
o running and bring back a Greek salad from the pizza place around the corner. Once she got back to work, though, she hit a brick wall. For hours, she sat in front of her laptop, fiddling with the parameters of the bonds, watching as the modeling program redisplayed the new molecular configurations. She just couldn't make the physics match her intuitions.
The harder she tried, the more ground she lost. It was hot and stuffy in her study; summer appeared to have arrived, though it was barely May. Pain pounded in her head. The multi-colored spirals and rings on her screen blurred in front of her tired eyes. She got up and paced, hoping some clue would emerge from her subconscious.
Kit cranked open the window to get some fresh air. A blast of sound hit her in the gut. Someone was playing rock music, flooding the alley behind her condo building with thumping base and wailing guitars.
Her watch told her it was half past midnight. What kind of jerk would be making such a racket so late? She scanned the buildings across the alley and noticed pastel lights flickering in one third floor window. As she located the source of the noise, the colors faded to be replaced by a brilliant white strobe, pulsing with the beat. The strobe seemed to be aimed right at her window. Crisp shadows danced on the far wall of her study.
All her fatigue and frustration boiled up inside her. “Hey!” she yelled into the dark alley. “Quiet down! Don't you know what time it is?"
The throbbing music drowned out her shouts. The flashing lights nearly blinded her. “Damn it, have some consideration!” The volume actually seemed to increase.
Kit slammed the window shut and dragged the drapes across the glass. The music was muffled but still audible. The curtains diffused the beam of the strobe although the room still brightened and darkened to its rhythm. She sat again in front of her computer, but her mind was a blank, all constructive thought erased by her anger and the pain hammering inside her skull. She brushed her teeth, took some aspirin, and threw herself naked on her bed, wondering if it was too early in the year to turn on the air conditioning. Finally, she fell asleep to the faint but insistent beat that still filtered in from the alley.
She woke early from one of her typical dreams. She was in the lab with Bittenger and the rest of the team, reviewing some test results. She knew she had made an error, a serious one, and she was terrified that they'd discover it. She looked around for Jill, but there were only the men, peering at her lab notebook, muttering among themselves and shooting suspicious glances in her direction.
Kit sat up and shook her short hair out of her eyes. She knew she was as smart and talented as any other chemist on her team. She was the only one with a Stanford Ph.D. Why did she let such doubts possess her?
A good, hard run was what she needed. She splashed some water on her face, pulled on a jog bra and shorts, grabbed her keys, and hit the streets.
It was barely six. Memorial Drive was almost empty. She followed her usual route along the Charles, enjoying the feeling of her muscles stretching, flexing, pushing for more speed. The fresh morning air filled her lungs. It was still cool, but she was sweating by the time she finished her three mile circuit and turned to head home.
Her mind was blissfully empty from her exertion. At the corner of Howard, though, a block from her building, memory rushed back. The recalcitrant problem of protein 43-7(b). The strobe lights and raucous music. The house must be on this street, back to back with the buildings on her own. Maybe she should give her impolite neighbor a taste of his own medicine.
Kit slowed to a walk and turned onto the narrow road. It was lined with the three-story, wood framed houses that used to be the norm before this part of town turned upmarket. Most had been renovated, their weathered shingles replaced with aluminum or vinyl in tasteful shades of white, gray, or cream. In the middle of the block, however, stood a house with its original wooden siding, painted a lurid purple.
That had to be it. Paisley draperies hung in the picture window. Over the door, there was a sign, aqua and yellow, in a font so distorted that it looked as though the letters were melting. Frank's Folly, it read, and underneath, Head Shop.
Anger made Kit bold. She climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell, twice. A parrot squawked behind the door. Otherwise, there was no effect. She rang the bell again, and then, impatient, banged on the door with her fist.
The door swung open. A sweet, smoky aroma wafted out. Kit found herself staring into a pair of amazingly blue eyes that blinked and squinted against the morning sunlight.
He looked at her long time without speaking. In his eyes, she saw curiosity and amusement. She was acutely aware of her bare midriff and the sweaty shorts clinging to her butt. As for the owner of the establishment, he wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that only partly hid a hairy belly and faded cutoffs so loose and tattered that she couldn't avoid catching glimpses of his heavy balls.
The man's steady gaze drove out all her angry words. He smiled, kindly, apparently not caring that he had been awakened at such an early hour.
"Good morning. Can I help you?” He swept his eyes over her skimpy clothing and his smile broadened. “Normally, I'm closed on Sunday—day of rest and all that. But if there's something you urgently need, I'd be happy to see what I can do."
"I—um—you—that was quite a party you had last night!"
"Party?"
"Music, lights—up on your third floor. You could hear it all over the neighborhood!"
A stricken look passed over his bearded face. “Oh, sorry! I was just relaxing by myself, just spacing out after a long week. Did I disturb you?"
"As a matter of fact, you did. I was trying to work."
He grinned, looking suddenly much younger than the gray strands in his beard suggested. “A pretty woman like you shouldn't be working on a Saturday night! But really, I am sorry. I didn't realize that anyone could hear me."
"They probably could hear you over at City Hall.” Kit's sense of righteous indignation returned. How could the old guy be so oblivious?
"Please, accept my apologies. It won't happen again.” He gave her another once over. She felt a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Won't you come in for a cup of coffee? I just made some fresh.” Despite his bleary look, she hadn't gotten him out of bed after all.
"No, that's okay. I just wanted to let you know about the problem."
"Please, come in. Let me make amends. I've got some excellent Columbian."
Before Kit could protest that she didn't drink coffee, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dark, aromatic space inside. His skin was warm and unexpectedly soft. Accidentally or deliberately, his body brushed against her hip, and she sensed hardness through the worn denim. She flinched, trying to get away from him. At the same time, she felt her nipples tighten, and a flutter of pleasure rippled through her cunt.
She made excuses. It was just because Todd was away.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable.” The proprietor of the shop—Frank?—gestured toward a brass tripod table surrounded by carved wooden stools. “I'll be right back.” His hand hovered for a moment, as if he was going to stroke her hair; then he disappeared through a bead curtain at the back of the room.
Kit looked around her. It was like stepping into the past. Not her own past—maybe her mother's. Tapestries portraying athletically conjoined Indian gods shared wall space with concert posters for Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and The Grateful Dead. Rough wooden shelves near the doorway displayed water pipes, scales, and a wide range of paraphernalia that she couldn't identify. A glass case near the door held assorted jewelry: silver chains, leather wristbands and long, ornate earrings. Marijuana leaves, were a popular motif. Crystals dangled from the ceiling. One corner hosted piles of cushions and rugs. The small shop was crowded with statues of the Buddha, African masks, geodes with amethyst centers. On a shelf above her shoulder, she noted a porcelain incense burner shaped like a massive penis.
She blushed again, though she was alone, and took a deep breath. The atmosphere was heavy with patchou
li and sandalwood.
The beads clicked together as Frank returned holding two steaming mugs. “Here you are, then.” He seated himself on the stool next to her—close, too close. Invading her personal space.
"I don't...” Kit began. But the rich aroma of the coffee made her mouth water. Just this once, perhaps.
"Sorry, I don't have any milk, but there's sugar.” He pointed to a ceramic bowl molded in the shape of a peace sign. He dumped a heaping spoonful into his own mug.
"Uh, no thanks.” She took a tentative sip, then drank deeper. The flavor was earthy and complex. She could feel the caffeine racing through her blood.
Frank was staring at her again, his eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. Absently, he scratched his unruly head. She could tell that he hadn't showered.
"I guess, then, that we're neighbors."
"Yes, well, I don't spend much time at home.” She licked her lips nervously. “Mostly, I'm at work."
"You work too hard, I think. You need to take time to enjoy life.” He rummaged in his pocket, and she caught another glimpse of his scrotum and his half-hard cock. Hastily, she turned to examine one of the posters.
"Want to do a number?” He was holding out a fat, hand-rolled cigarette. Kit felt a sudden panic.
"No—um—I don't do drugs. I know too much about them."
"Oh?” He lit the joint himself and drew in a lungful of the fragrant smoke.
"Yes, well, I work for a pharmaceutical company."
"Really? What a coincidence.” She didn't understand. But she didn't want to ask questions or prolong the conversation. Really, she didn't want to talk about herself at all. She thought she should be going home.
He took another toke and held it, closing his eyes. His expression was beatific. He reminded her of some hairy elf, or perhaps a giant, grizzled teddy bear. The smell of pot drowned out the incense. Kit felt dizzy.
Coming Together With Pride Page 7