Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  Martina would argue with me. “Why should I be the sacrificial lamb?”

  As that very sacrificial lamb, I was not moved by this line of reasoning. But a friend is a friend and you take your friends as you find them. I wasn’t going to change her. Sure, I was disappointed that she couldn’t identify with people who were struggling but money and fame came so early, maybe she will never be able to do that. I don’t know.

  I couldn’t even get those two to give money to PEN International when Vaclav Havel was imprisoned. Writers the world over worked tirelessly to get that remarkable man out of jail.

  Maybe Judy didn’t want the money to go for anything but new shoes, vacations, a snakeskin interior for the Porsche or to pacify a few exes and hangers-on loyal to Judy. Again, I don’t know. And I hasten to add that I wasn’t suggesting they fork over a hundred thousand dollars. Ten thousand would have been quite nice, but I would have been proud if they’d even written a check for a thousand.

  Each time I saw Martina I saw less of her. More and more, Judy dominated. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Judy—I was neutral about her. It was just that I loved Martina. If Judy made her happy, then I’d accept the way things were going.

  Also, Martina gets furious if you criticize her on any count whatsoever. She can dish it out but she can’t take it. Why fight when I saw her so infrequently?

  God knows I can still fight with Fannie if either of us has a mind to—but Fannie is independent and strong.

  Then, too, it’s difficult for most people to accept criticism from a former lover. Martina never bothered to criticize me to my face so I didn’t have to cope with the immediate experience.

  When the bloom was off the Judy rose, Martina followed her pattern: She tossed her over for another woman. Part of the bonding process is that the new lover can then bear the slings and arrows directed at Martina from the traded-in model.

  This time Martina ducked more than slings and arrows or smashed-up windows in the BMW. That stuff was nothing. Even the sly bids for money from the exes were nothing to this.

  Judy sued.

  Worse, she had the damned video.

  Judy wanted seven million dollars for her services. This sum was half of what Martina earned while they were together, including real estate purchases and other investments. Whether Judy’s lawyers actually pinpointed this sum in the pretrial hearing, I don’t know. Judy declared she had helped earn the fabulous sums and she wanted half. She’d kept track of Martina’s earnings by reading the various financial statements. This is not to suggest her computations were correct. There’s no way to check that.

  As this unraveled in the beginning of 1991, both began calling me. Gordon Reistrup would pick up the call, march into my office and say “Victim number one” or “Victim number two.”

  God, he was funny.

  Judy sobbed and carried on high.

  Martina, glad to be rid of her, shed not a tear. But she waxed furious on the subject of the lawsuit. Also, her latest love was religious-minded and quite nervous about being gay, and Martina wondered if I knew any books that could help.

  “A little late for that now,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I suggested a few books and perhaps a chat with the young woman’s pastor. You’d be surprised at how understanding many pastors are. After all, we’re all God’s children, and as far as I know, no pastor has the right to judge his flock.

  I sympathized with Martina. Judy wanted half of all she’d earned while they’d been together. Her argument was that of any wife of any successful man. The argument had worked with Dr. Ed Nelson. But Martina wasn’t Ed Nelson.

  The reality is there are no culturally agreed-upon guidelines for same-sex relationships. Heterosexual relationships have canon law and state law. Personally, I oppose the state’s being in anyone’s bedroom. I’ve heard all the arguments about tax breaks and so on for straight couples but I believe the state’s abiding interest in marriage has a dark side, that it was originally meant to stop miscegenation (the old word for mixing the races). If you had to show up at court for a license, they had you.

  If you make a life with another human being, if you verbally promise to love, honor and protect, with or without the blessing of your pastor, it seems to me some fiscal responsibility is in order.

  Martina and Judy indulged in not one but two marriage ceremonies. If the word marriage offends you, use holy union.

  If Martina had made a reasonable offer (at that time any offer was unreasonable to her), Judy would have accepted. By opposing Judy, by declaring her a gold digger, Martina gave Judy exactly what Judy has always craved for herself: publicity.

  Judy knew her woman and she played her like a harp.

  Martina picked the wrong time to fight back. She has no political sense, but then, does Bill Clinton have a great serve?

  Judy’s suit made sense to most women in America, straight or gay, who have been dismissed by their partner.

  Meanwhile, the newspapers and the TV shows churned out copy. Judy appeared at each interview impeccably dressed, spending hours on her turnout and wearing some of that expensive jewelry Martina had showered upon her.

  Martina grew more and more truculent. Her new love grew more and more anxious. She didn’t want to be dragged through the wringer. She thought she’d lose her job and she did. I don’t think she was called on the carpet and fired for being a lesbian. People are too clever for that.

  Martina would pay her way, sure. But her new love had before her very eyes the example of another woman whose way had been paid.

  Anguish in Aspen was setting in.

  In May of 1991 Judy decided I was the one person who could settle this dispute. She also decided that I understood her suffering. Of course, I suffered when Martina left me, telling me at the age of thirty-six that I was too old. But I learned a great deal from that experience. Nor did I want money for my pains. What I wanted was wisdom and what I gained was heightened compassion for people. We are such foolish creatures, but we’re all we’ve got.

  Martina’s lawyers slapped Judy in the face with various low offers. I think the highest was $225,000. No way would Judy walk away for such a small amount—big to you and me, maybe, but peanuts to her. She’d lived high on the hog and she wanted the chitlins.

  So far as I was able, I kept counseling both, trying to lower the hostility level on one end and the flood of tears on the other.

  I thought I could get them through this. I did, finally, help settle the mess by getting them to sit down and talk, but not before a high price was paid—by me.

  82

  Silly Girls

  While the Martina vs. Judy bout was in progress, Aunt Mimi relished our regular conversations. The glorious thing about Aunt Mimi, on cruise control in her nineties, was that I didn’t have to be around her, so I’d write letters, and I would call once a week.

  Still vying for sainthood, she reported the family events but without Mother’s sting. Then, too, she was reporting on her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. If they were related to her, they had to be oh so good. I was the only one who was imperfect. Therefore she loved talking to me. It gave her the opportunity to swing incense, light candles and pray for my soul. It also gave her the opportunity to traipse down Memory Lane. Actually, it was more like riding in a panzer. Aunt Mimi’s memories were always purposeful and instructive.

  “Those silly girls.” A long pause would follow, and her voice would drop into the “important” register. “Can’t you talk sense to them?”

  “You try it, then tell me how easy it is.”

  A slight hesitation while the sass set in. “Are either of them members of the Church?”

  “No.”

  “Well—any church?”

  “I think Judy was raised a Baptist, and Martina was raised a Communist.”

  “No hope, then. Baptists can’t read, you know.”

  “Aunt Mimi, of course they can.”

  “Kin to the snake handlers. A Communist and a Baptist.”
She clucked.

  “Martina was raised a Communist but she isn’t a believer. In fact, she was baptized a Catholic.”

  “Ah.” Her tone lightened.

  “Never confirmed.”

  Her hopes were dashed again. “She could take her catechism now.”

  “If she could figure out how to read while skiing, maybe so. Aunt Mimi, I don’t think a religious solution is at hand.”

  “If those two girls get into court, the fur will fly.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “You’re supposed to be their friend. You keep them out of court.”

  “Like I said, Aunt Mimi, I’m trying.”

  “You’re persuasive when you want to be.” She thought a long time. “ ’Course, you’ll solve the problem and then they’ll both be mad at you. That’s the way these things happen.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “That’s what used to happen to me, you know. Julia Ellen and Russell would fight. I’d make the peace, then they’d be mad at me.”

  “They were mad at you because you meddled nonstop in that marriage.”

  “I did not. You sound just like Juts. She was always taking Julia Ellen’s part and I can tell you what: I didn’t like it.”

  “Maybe so, but I bet you’d like her back.”

  A sniffle carried over the line. “My little sister … when Momma died she said, ‘Mary, take care of Juts.’ ”

  There she went again. First of all, Big Mimi rarely called her Mary. Second, Big Mimi knew better than to entrust Juts to her older sister’s care. Those two would kill each other.

  However, Aunt Mimi had told this story so many times over so many decades that you couldn’t cross her on it. It was part of her loving, responsible, honorable big-sister image, which in reality translated to: The Tyrant.

  “You were a good older sister, Aunt Mimi,” I lied.

  “I tried. I tried.” Her voice trailed off, filling with emotion as she again reran all her sufferings.

  Twenty minutes later she switched back to the subject at hand: “Can’t you get those two girls to shut up?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t care what they say to one another. Keep them away from the press. Looks bad for you people. Know what I mean, Reetsie?”

  There was no point in explaining to her that Judy wallowed in the attention, and, if the truth be told, Martina doesn’t mind seeing her name in print either. She assumed, and this struck me as odd, that people would automatically believe anything she said. If she and Judy were crossing swords, she believed the people were with her.

  The real world doesn’t work that way. You can be God’s chosen on earth and people will disbelieve you, torment you and finally nail you.

  “That Texas girl gives more information than society requires.” Aunt Mimi sniffed. “Those people are that way.”

  “Not all of them. But this one is.”

  “Are you writing any more books?”

  “Yes, ma’am. All the time.”

  “Don’t you dare put me in another book, Rita Mae. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Of course, if I didn’t put her in a book she’d skin me alive.

  By the time I hung up the phone with The Only Living Saint on This Sinful Earth my ear ached.

  The Sisters of Perpetual Pleasure, which is how I thought of Martina and Judy, were wearing me out.

  A stiff upper lip holds no appeal for Judy. If she wasn’t calling me, she was calling anyone who’d listen.

  Martina’s calls were sporadic. She really is a Sister of Perpetual Pleasure. Why deal with a problem if you can pay someone else to do it for you? No matter how she’d try, though, this problem would boomerang back.

  In total frustration, Judy flew out to spend a few days with me. She invited herself but on reflection I thought it was a good idea. If nothing else, I’d get a clear sense of how much money she wanted and how far she would go to get it. My brighter hope was that I might calm her down a bit.

  Judy boohooed a lot but I threw her on a horse and her mood improved. The dogwoods bloomed, the redbud covered the mountains, the robins had come home. She began to feel better.

  Gordon was attentive. Judy craves attention from young men. Her mood improved even more.

  She promised me not to attack Martina during Wimbledon, the last week of June and the first week of July. She broke that promise.

  I figured out that a house, a car and a lump sum somewhere around a million dollars would do the trick. Small details might change but Judy would drop the suit. At first I thought a monthly stipend might work, so that Martina wouldn’t have to come up with a lump sum. But the more I thought about it the wiser a lump sum seemed to me. It would prevent Judy from trying to renegotiate down the line as she blew through the money. Also, signing that monthly check, assuming Martina still signed her own checks, would upset Martina.

  Before Judy left she said how close she felt to me.

  I was getting nervous. She tried to kiss me and I walked away. “I can’t do that because I don’t feel that way and because I’m trying to settle this mess. I can’t be more on one side than the other.”

  After Judy flew back to Aspen, I called Martina and tactfully suggested she get out while the getting was good. Give her the house in Aspen. Give her whichever one car she asks for and a lump sum of a million dollars.

  Martina hit the roof. She couldn’t see that paying now was going to save a hell of a lot of money later. I listened again to how she had employed Judy’s brother, father, brother-in-law and how she paid for the boys, etc., etc. She did, too. But none of us could understand why she did it in the first place. Why become chintzy now? Pay her off. Get her off your back. Be furious but get over it. You play, you pay.

  I got nowhere. Judy pressed on.

  The compelling reason for me to work so hard to keep this out of court and off the public record was what it would do to other gay people. We’d worked so hard for our gains. All we needed was a messy, sleazy sex scandal.

  Straight people can dive into sex scandals every day. Rob Lowe endured one. The men mentioned in You’ll Never Make Love in This Town Again certainly had their faces rubbed in it. But their misdeeds and cavorting aren’t going to be used against other straight men. Straight women emerge a bit more damaged, but still, Sydney Biddle Barrows’s call girl ring isn’t held against other straight women. Oppression works in such a way that it holds every person responsible for the acts of any wrongdoer of the oppressed group.

  The stakes were high in this galimony suit.

  They were about to get even higher.

  The great state of Colorado passed Amendment 2 as Nelson vs. Navratilova dragged on. This was the amendment that declared gay people deserve no special protection under the law and rescinded all such statutes on the books. Read “It’s open season on queers.”

  Martina said she was outraged and would move out of Colorado, but she didn’t.

  Judy suddenly cast herself as a gay heroine. She was going to fight Amendment 2 as well. And she did. She hammered away each time she had a public appearance or interview and she made it a point to drop by groups organizing against the amendment.

  The longer I struggled with this lawsuit the more I perceived Judy’s stamina. She’s a bulldozer. There’s not an ounce of subtlety in her, but she doesn’t give up. She can see only what benefits her, but in this instance what benefited her also benefited other people. She’s clear about her self-interest, which fuels her drive.

  Martina doesn’t understand politics on any level. It disgusts her. She doesn’t mind receiving applause for showing up at some gay-related function if the mood strikes her, but fundamentally she is apolitical. The heat and battle of politics frighten her.

  Many athletes are apolitical. The time they spend perfecting isolated body movements, mastering strategy and game plans, leaves time for little else. Also, there’s no reason for them to be political. Joe Louis, great as he was, wasn’t political even thou
gh he struck one of the great blows for people of color when he knocked out James Braddock in 1937.

  While those two carried on, I now had a new problem on my hands. Judy was getting amorous. Luckily, Aspen is a long way away. If she could snare me it would be backhand revenge against Martina. I didn’t think Martina cared one way or the other, but there was something collusive about it. Everything Judy said or did at this time was aimed at Martina. Because of that, I didn’t take her overtures seriously. I did notice, however, that if I listened and said supportive (not romantic) things, I was able to lower the outraged tenor of the proceedings.

  Meanwhile the lawyers for both parties were raking in the coins. Judy’s money was running out. Martina’s legal team, on a huge retainer, was playing starve the wife. You see it every day in divorces. It’s a nasty ploy but effective.

  They misjudged Judy. Their tactics only made her angrier and more determined on financial revenge. They probably made the mistake most people make about Judy: They assume she’s a pretty airhead. She’s quite bright where her self-interest is concerned. She appears to have no interest in literature, drama, serious music or the outside world, but about her own world she knows what she wants and she’ll hang in there to get it.

  Martina, also, completely misjudged her. She thought she could walk away without reprisal. Okay, maybe she’d have to cough up a few items, but she never thought Judy would bring out the big guns.

  Bad as all this was, I hoped it was a wake-up call for Martina. People aren’t cars. You can’t trade them in without emotional repercussions.

  Unfortunately, Martina forced my hand, not Judy’s. Her lawyers argued in the pretrial hearing that Martina and Judy had had a contract for sex. It amounted to prostitution and therefore was against public policy. According to this argument Judy was entitled to nothing.

  Martina avowed that she hadn’t understood what she was doing when she made the video “will.” The video was shown on television. Boy, Aunt Mimi was on the phone after that. She was aghast.

  “Martina seemed happy as a lark. What’s she mean, she was lured into that?” was just one of the things Aunt Mimi had to say.