Watermark

by Karin Kallmaker

  Discouraged, she flipped channels. Violent, violent, inane, way too heterosexual, inane, inane — wait, that one was a Bond flick. The perfect combination of violence, inanity and heterosexuality for her tastes. She woke up after midnight and muddled herself into bed. At one, she was awakened by amorous noises from Vivian's room. For whatever reason they'd come back here — oh joy.

  Just when she thought her life was going along a track she liked, she was totally derailed. And her roommate had found a steady girlfriend when her own long hours had kept her from pursuing romance. Something was just not fair about turning twenty-eight.

  "Oh yeah, oh yeah," was being chanted on the other side of the wall.

  She rolled over and put her head under a pillow. It did not muffle the sound of the headboard thumping into the wall.

  She sang "American Pie" fairly loudly, trying to remember all the words. All she could think was that everyone seemed to be having more sex than she was, and better sex at that. She was beginning to under¬stand why Ken resented it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had sex with another person in the room — almost, in an alley with that woman didn't count.

  "Do it!"

  She sang louder. "Do it to me one more time..." Gak.

  The ohs and yesses were running into each other. It sounded like Vivian was enjoying giving orders and Kim was obliging. She plugged her ears with her fingers and chanted, "I'm not listening, I'm not listening," until the thumping stopped.

  She unplugged her ears and waited cautiously. Sighing, cooing. Thank God they were done.

  She was almost asleep again when the "Oh baby, oh baby," began. She vowed that tomorrow night, no matter what, she would get out of the house and go someplace where single women could be found.

  "Harder!"

  Even if it was that men's bar where she'd almost seduced that woman. Right now she really wished she had. She shuddered as she remembered the cold brick against her back.

  "Don't stop!"

  The feel of her soft skin, those full breasts.

  "All night, baby, all night!"

  She stumbled out of bed, jammed Die Hard III into the VCR and turned it up loud.

  Ken was right. Sex outside marriage was evil. Especially when it was possible to hear, over the sound of three exploding armored cars, "God you're incredible oh God more oh harder God me oh God I'm oh God ..."

  "Mom, I can't face any more turkey. You're on your own with the leftovers." Rayann twined the phone cord around her finger. "I ate three dinners yesterday."

  "Good, you've lost too much weight."

  She let that slide. "You like apples and walnuts in your stuffing. Joyce likes celery and mushrooms. Marilyn made it Danny's favorite way — cornbread and chestnuts." Just thinking about all the food she'd consumed was making her queasy again.

  "I forgot to tell you yesterday that I've heard rumors about a shake-up at Liman's. Do you want me to keep you posted?"

  Automatically, Rayann answered, "Sure." If she had any intention of working anywhere in advertising, Liman's was a place that would suit her. It was not as if she was busy with anything else. The only reason she'd even picked up a chisel in her workshop was to make a few Christmas presents. It had hardly been a creative impulse. "A shake-up there? That's unusual."

  "I think someone is retiring, actually, so they're going to reorganize a little. That's about as dramatic as it gets at Liman's. So are you going to do any

  shopping? The sales are supposed to be good this year."

  "In that mess? I've gotten addicted to uncrowded shopping conditions, I'm afraid."

  "But braving the crowds is part of the fun."

  "You always were crazy that way."

  "Oh well," her mother sighed. "I guess I'll have to go alone."

  Rayann settled into the comfy chair again and opened Mrs. Dalloway. It was Louisa's favorite Virginia Woolf.

  The phone rang.

  It was the third call that morning. She let the machine pick it up. Judy wanted to know if she was up to shopping with a fat lady. Her fingers tightened around the book. She'd accepted three invitations for Thanksgiving get-togethers because she hadn't really been out since Halloween. Yesterday she'd turned down three more offers for outings. Joyce had wanted to go shopping. Jim had invited her for a round of golf on Saturday. Teddy had wanted her to come over for the Forty-niners game on Sunday.

  Why can't they just leave me alone?

  Louisa didn't answer. She hadn't been answering since the settlement check from the trucking company had arrived.

  She clenched her jaw, trying to work past the sudden rage. Her scalp broke out in a sweat and her nails left vivid half-moons in her palms. The anger subsided finally, but every day it was more difficult to work through it.

  Unable to sit still, she went for a walk. Their new house was on the fringe of a little enclave not far

  from Lake Merritt. They'd been lucky to find a house big enough to provide extra rooms for a home office they could both use and a sunny den Rayann had set up as a workshop. It wasn't a particularly trendy neighborhood, being too close to downtown Oakland for some people's tastes, but the location couldn't have been more convenient for them. It was only six blocks to the bookstore and only a little farther to a rapid transit station. When the weather was bad Rayann took a cab — Louisa had always walked, rain or shine. At least she had for the short time she had been walking to work instead of simply going downstairs.

  As Rayann turned the corner she left behind the echoes of the empty house and the shadows of plans that would never be completed. Her feet found the familiar path to the bookstore without any particular thought on her part. As she walked up the street she relived her first walk to its door.

  The Common Reader hadn't changed much. Like all of the buildings in the area, it sat above the street on a raised foundation, as if in danger of flooding. The bookstore occupied the bottom floor. Through the second-story windows she could glimpse Venetian blinds. She knew what lay beyond them like she knew her own body — the living room and kitchen divided by a bar-height counter, the bedroom that had been hers until she'd given it up for Louisa's. The memory of the bookstore and their apartment above it was more poignant and painful than the new house.

  From the sidewalk she could see Ricki's "This weekend only" sale signs just under the store name. She hadn't been able to find the strength to go inside, so all the negotiating with Ricki had been done by

  phone or at a local cafe over coffee. If she went inside, it would be for the first time since the accident. Not today, she thought. / can't do it today.

  A customer with an armload of books came down the stairs. She heard Ricki's voice, then Ricki was at the door, looking down to the street. "I'll give you a call when it's in — Rayann!"

  She had to go in now. "I was just out for a walk," she said as she climbed the stairs. Ricki gave her a hug and pulled her inside.

  The smell washed over her. The smell of old books... it smelled like Louisa's hands and her hair.

  "I just wanted to thank you again," Ricki was saying. "I feel like the luckiest woman on the face of the planet. I've found the perfect person to be part-time — she might want to buy in, too. Isn't that great?"

  "Good for you." Ricki hadn't changed anything except the front displays. It was so easy to believe that Louisa was just out of sight in the side room they'd called "The Women's Reader." Or she was up¬stairs making lunch. In just a moment Rayann would hear the throaty laugh and the quick tread of Louisa's feet on the stairs.

  She recognized some of the customers as regulars. The small talk was not as bad as she thought it'd be. No one brought up Louisa and she didn't have to lie that she was getting on with her life.

  Being there was too much, though. The smell, the way the floor creaked, the buzz of the cash register, it was all too much. She had fallen head over heels in love with Louisa, surprising her twenty-nine-year-old sensibilities with an aching physical need for a woman twenty-seven years her senior —
a year older than her

  own mother. She'd denied how she felt, then admitted and mightily struggled to keep her secret from Louisa. And all the while those sounds and the aroma of literature and the passion of poetry had been in the background. In a way, she'd been seduced by the book¬store first. She could not go to the back of the store where they'd once made love, all in a rush, like teen¬agers too eager to find someplace more private. The apartment upstairs where they'd spent nearly nine years together was full of memories too vivid to be endured. She was glad she would never have to come back here again.

  She bought a new book on the history of the gay civil rights movement, then left as soon as she could, never once looking into the side room, pretending that Louisa was in there, that everything was like it once had been.

  She was getting tired, but she forced herself up the block to the retirement residence. It was the only regular commitment she was keeping these days, and she hadn't visited in several weeks. The book was for Hazel Schoernsson, who might be completely deaf but whose eyesight was as good as ever.

  As always, she thought the little apartment seemed smaller without Greta's gentle presence. Her death from rapidly spreading liver cancer had happened two years ago. She'd wasted away almost overnight, it had seemed, certainly more quickly than Louisa had. As it had been happening, Rayann had thought that some¬day she might be watching Louisa through a similar death. She'd been prepared for an illness, maybe cancer. Something like that. Not being thrown twenty-four feet by a truck.

  The urge — all too familiar — to find the driver

  and strangle him with her bare hands made her fingers curl and blood pound in her temples. She sometimes pictured him being forced to drink beer after beer after beer until it killed him. Prison was too good for him.

  Money was no revenge. The settlement check sat in the bank. She had no plans for spending a dime.

  Hazel was too stubborn to let Rayann make the tea, and Rayann could tell that today was a bad hip day.

  They sipped the tea while Hazel admired the book, sometimes talking so quietly Rayann could hardly hear her. There was nothing wrong with Hazel's mind or her self-discipline. The visiting nurse assured Rayann that Hazel never missed a meal and was always doing light exercise when her hips would let her. But it was clear to Rayann that Hazel was living in a world where Greta still shared every thought and every care, just as they had for nearly sixty years. They'd run away together on the eve of Greta's wedding, immi¬grated and passed themselves off as sisters, never telling anyone they were lovers until Rayann had started working in Louisa's bookstore. Now a small rainbow flag was pinned next to the apartment's front door, in the space permitted for "expressions of personal identity"

  Their conversation was mostly pointing and smiles with Rayann scrawling comments on a small white board. Hazel brought out her most recent collection of newspaper clippings she thought Rayann would be interested in. It was just about the only news Rayann took in these days. Louisa had been a demon for keeping up on current events.

  Just another way I've let you down.

  So little about Hazel reminded her of Louisa that she stayed until it was nearly sunset. Hazel shooed her out with dire predictions about the weather and winter colds. Rayann fondly kissed her good-bye — her fussing sounded just like Greta.

  It wasn't far from there to Lake Merritt. A sharp-edged wind raised tiny whitecaps across the surface. She avoided the northern part of the lake and traipsed instead the long way through Laney College to get to a hole-in-the-wall Korean diner serving the spicy noodles that had been one of Louisa's favorite dishes. The red pepper kept her warm inside during the cold walk home.

  She was exhausted and yet she couldn't sit still. She'd planned on watching Howard's End, one of Louisa's more recent favorites, but for once she found the pace slow, the dialogue stilted. Even Emma Thompson didn't intrigue her, and usually Rayann could not look away from any scene with Emma in it.

  Her lack of concentration frustrated her. She paced the house, stepping over the rolls of wallpaper and around the ladder by habit. Her shirt itched.

  She dug in the hamper for something sort of clean and less itchy. On her way back to the living room she stubbed her toe on the ladder. The ladder toppled into a side table and one of Louisa's pictures tipped onto the floor.

  She picked it up — the glass had cracked across Louisa's face.

  What, is this some kind of fucking metaphor? Blinded by a lightning bolt of rage, Rayann threw the frame as hard as she could and ignored the sound of breaking glass. She yanked the table over. More frames shattered on the tile floor. She heaved the

  ladder into the hallway and tripped over the table, landing heavily on the rubble on the floor. Her left hand came up bloody from glass, but she paid no attention as she stumbled into the kitchen.

  It was as if someone else was in the house. Some¬one else picked up the half-empty bottle of gin and threw it against the refrigerator. Someone else was screaming. Someone else stumbled into the so-called workroom and picked up the magnifying glass.

  "This is all shit!" The glass flew into the hall. She snatched up her chisels and one by one threw them knife-fashion into the hall, too. The largest was in her hand and she turned on the piece she'd been trying to start.

  It was supposed to be an homage to love, a memory of passion. She'd told herself once it was done she could find a job, move forward. But she hadn't even finished the sketches.

  "This is shit, too," she said grimly. With ferocious determination she brought the chisel down on the top of the block. That it hardly dented the ironwood only made her more angry and determined.

  She'd had the block for years. She'd moved it into Louisa's apartment over the bookstore, then into this house. No more. It was a millstone around her neck. It represented all her failures as an artist, as a person, as a lover.

  She picked up the hammer, seated the chisel into a nearly invisible ripple in the wood and struck hammer to chisel with all her might.

  The chisel handle shattered under the blow and the blade underneath sliced into her palm. In a moment of stillness, Rayann thought, "How could I be so stupid?" Then the sight of blood spilling across the

  surface of the wood made her run to the bathroom. The cut was deep and long, and the bleeding wouldn't stop.

  It wasn't easy getting to the emergency room by herself, but she was so embarrassed at what had happened that she couldn't bear to have anyone see her, or the house. By the time she saw a doctor the bleeding had stopped but she was shaking inside. Seven stitches was nothing compared to how badly she could have hurt herself. She had completely lost con¬trol. She didn't know how to stop it from happening again.

  It was after midnight when she walked into the house again, her right hand throbbing under a tightly wrapped bandage. The reek of gin slapped her, and although she was exhausted, she made herself clean up the mess. It took much longer with just one hand. She wasn't angry anymore, just so tired. The pain¬killers left her feeling disconnected. She didn't mind.

  7

  Teresa surveyed herself in Vivian's long mirror and buttoned the last button on the cuffs of the vintage jacket. All the feasting at her dad's over Christmas had made the waist a little more snug. If the rain let up she would go for a run later.

  It had not been raining in L.A. The sky had even been what passed for blue in Southern California. She would have stayed longer and soaked up the rays, but instead she was pounding the pavement in hopes of landing gainful employment before she had to borrow money from her dad to make the rent. Working for a

 

  curator's salary hadn't left her any savings, and two weeks' notice hadn't been enough to find a job before she was without a paycheck.

  She missed the museum a lot. She missed the quiet hum of visitors and she missed her coworkers. Carla had been a good boss. She'd learned a lot from her, not just about running a museum, but also working with employees, peers, clients. Five months' watching and learning ha
d not been enough and her abrupt termination, along with two other assistants, would be painful for a while.

  She smoothed the jacket. She was presentable enough. She glared at the wrinkle on her temple and the one that forked from it. Don't obsess, she warned herself. She had a date for New Year's Eve, a woman named Susan she'd met at the Lace Place. She didn't know if it would lead anywhere, but at long last she had a date. The vintage suit had certainly been worth every penny.

  She looked businesslike enough for the financial district but not cookie cutter. The ad agency she was interviewing at was definitely a free-thinking group, but she wanted to be taken seriously. Her computer design skills were respectable and she didn't want anyone thinking she could be treated like a light¬weight. She was not going to repeat the past.

  Her first misgivings occurred as she waited in the reception area. She counted seven pairs of Birken-stocks, four patchwork vests and three tie-dyed shirts. A huge print of a Grateful Dead album cover adorned the waiting area. There was an assortment of the expected deathly pale, black-clad artiste types and all of them looked at her askance. Compared to them, she looked like an investment banker.

  She unbuttoned her jacket and undid the collar of her shirt. The scarf disappeared into her purse.

  She was a little nervous about the interview. She had sent in her resume and gone through a phone interview with a person from the human resources department. Now she was waiting for the CEO, who apparently liked to interview all the applicants per¬sonally. The H.R. person had said the turnover of the seventy or so employees was so low that it didn't take much of his time. Maybe I should be nervous, she thought. There must be tons of people hankering for any job at such a steady and well-regarded local firm.

  Someone had dubbed Liman's the Ben & Jerry's of advertising. The firm took no business that offended CEO and Founder Philip Liman's political sensibilities — including liquor and tobacco — and their work was high quality. When she'd read up on Liman's, she'd found they were generally regarded as quacks when it came to running a business, and geniuses when it came to advertising.