Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  As for not reading contracts, another of Martina’s claims, she’s signed so many in her career that these protestations rang hollow.

  I could brush aside the contract argument and the video lament. I couldn’t blame her. Making the video was so stupid, I wouldn’t want to claim being in full possession of my faculties either.

  What I couldn’t brush aside was the viciousness of her lawyer’s arguments, arguments that could inflict colossal damage on every gay person in the United States.

  Martina’s justification was that this was what her lawyers had told her to do. The client directs the lawyer, not vice versa.

  The moral issue was that Martina was willing to jeopardize all of us. For what? For a small fraction of what she has earned over the years. For the egotistical pleasure of beating a woman she loathed in court—and who knows if she would or she wouldn’t?

  Would Judy have been awarded seven million dollars? No. Even if she had won—and her case was much more straightforward than Martina’s—the judgment would have probably been reduced.

  Martina’s lawyers created a scenario of the tennis great living in reduced circumstances on her Aspen estate. They deplored the fact that she lived over the stable. I’ve seen the stable. Most of us would be happy to live in the quarters above it. Men’s lawyers do this all the time in divorces. They counsel the soon-to-be ex-husband to sell off the Mercedes and the condo at the beach and create a diminished income tax return if possible.

  But Martina had made upwards of thirty million dollars off the sweat of her brow and this doesn’t count endorsements and investments. With continued prudent investments, she could have recovered whatever she settled on Judy in less than five years.

  No doubt when the bills spilled over the grotesque retainer Martina paid, she told herself that those lawyers were working in her behalf. She took no responsibility for their tactics, which besmirched her honor, even as it potentially devastated the rest of us.

  Had this case come to trial, had Martina’s lawyers carried the day in Texas, where the trial was to be held, it would have been cited in any legal action involving gay people in similar or even dissimilar circumstances. It would have been stretched to cover many contingencies. To a legal mind, precedent is extremely compelling.

  It’s not such a big step from the argument that a contract for sex is against public policy to unnatural acts being against the public good to gay apartheid. After all, Martina’s home state, Colorado, was showing the way.

  Martina was arming our most dangerous enemies.

  The tatty truth was that Martina banked on the issue fading away, that gays who understood the viciousness of her lawyers’ arguments would overlook it if she showed up at the Gay March or the Gay Games. Some of these organizers actually invited her. Talk about sending mixed messages to the rest of us.

  This crisis plunged me into soul’s torment. I hadn’t wrestled with logic, emotion and spirit like this since the early days of the feminist movement. I was torn in two. Emotionally I felt much closer to Martina than to Judy, even though this pretrial hearing made me question why I cared about a person who could do something like that. Intellectually, I knew Judy’s case was about the worth of women’s work. Fundamentally it wasn’t about a relationship between women but about the worth of the supporting partner’s contribution. In our society that person is usually the wife. This was and remains a critical issue in a culture that discounts support work. We remain task-oriented. Whoever accomplishes the task is the important person. Emotionally, I felt antipathy for Judy. I believed she was a gold digger and I guess I always had believed that. Spiritually, I struggled because I had to put the fates of thousands or even millions of people I don’t know before two that I did know—and know well.

  I recalled shooting out the window of the BMW with the .38. I had wanted to scare Martina. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her physically, though I wanted to upset her as much as she upset me. But I blow up and then it’s over. Judy wanted to go to war.

  How wrong I was to indulge in a violent act. The more I considered their battle, the more I had to review my own actions. I was wrong. You can’t make people love you. You can’t hold them back. And you can’t hit back. I had learned that. Judy’s entire being was on the line with this lawsuit. She wanted to inflict permanent damage … as much for ego gratification as for money.

  I understood that I loved Martina more than Judy had ever loved her. I also understood that that didn’t matter. Getting beyond my ego wasn’t the issue. It was getting beyond their egos, and neither one could do it. Granted, it would be tough to do for any two people in such a sorry situation.

  Judy was wrong emotionally but right politically. That preyed on my mind.

  Many was the night I’d slide out of bed, put on my coat and walk the pastures trying to find the way and trying to understand what makes people so hateful who were once so loving. It’s not rational. Animals don’t behave as badly as we do.

  One night the moon was half full, the stars sparkled white, blue and even a kind of red. Peggy Sue, in a rare moment of interest in my person, walked over for a hug. Juts, at my heels, happily greeted Peggy, who stretched down for a hello. Bandit raced around in circles, very busy doing nothing. Sneaky Pie sat on the fence post. She didn’t like Peggy much, so she wasn’t going to touch noses. On the other hand, that cat lived in cold fear that she’d miss something, so she followed me. The dew glistened in the silvery half-light. A whipporwill called, as did an owl, a big owl. I knew what I had to do.

  “Let my people go,” Moses said to Pharaoh.

  “Let my people go,” says I.

  Haven’t we suffered enough to make straight people feel superior? Haven’t we carried straight people’s sexual sins on our backs like the scapegoats the ancient Hebrews drove into the desert? Haven’t we fought wars, bought freedom for all with our blood? Haven’t we tilled the soil and built our cities? Haven’t we wept when straight people’s mothers have died and rejoiced when their children were born? Haven’t we been at their sides throughout the centuries and today?

  Many of them have mocked us when they didn’t know us. When they knew us by the few who had the courage to come out, many were confused. Some straight people hate us. Most don’t care. A few understand.

  The only people who are queer are the people who don’t love anybody.

  Let my people go.

  I had to oppose Martina. If it came to a public trial I would have to support Judy.

  83

  Wuss Patrol

  The girls, as aunt Mimi called them, settled out of court shortly before they were to go to trial, thus sparing me the agony I had feared. Given the media feeding frenzy surrounding such events, they behaved prudently at last.

  I don’t know the details of the settlement. One of the points of the settlement is that only the parties involved, their lawyers and their accountants know the deal. I was glad I had helped to achieve this settlement but I was even more glad that they both realized no one could do this but themselves.

  By this time Judy had decided she was in love with me. I knew she wasn’t but she thought she was. Tired and not a little heartsick because I missed Beth through the years, I began to enjoy the attention entirely too much.

  I flew out to Aspen, a rough ride that gave me a migraine. The two of them were dividing up the contents of the house there, a situation ripe for a mess.

  Martina knew I would never cheat her on money or worldly goods and I wouldn’t let Judy cheat her. They actually divided things up fine. I was proud of both of them. Settling their legal dispute seemed to clear the air enough for them to get the job done.

  As is usual with Martina, her anger toward me came out publicly later. She was quoted as saying, “Those two deserve each other,” plus a few other jibes.

  Judy thought my understanding the legal issue meant I believed she was right. I didn’t. That she helped Martina when they were together is indisputable. But how much?

  Then Judy wrote a bo
ok about her life and begged me to write an introduction. I did. She didn’t much like the finished product but the publisher wanted my name on the book. I most emphatically didn’t take her part but tried to explain the emotional situation clearly.

  Spending time with Judy was a lot like spending time with Aunt Mimi. Both like to give orders. Notes littered the interior of automobiles, the doors of refrigerators, desktops and bathroom mirrors. When I visited the house in Aspen I observed this organizing tactic, which works so long as you remember where you stuck your notes.

  Trained to be a trophy wife, Judy carried out the daily tasks with ruthless efficiency. Not that she did the work, mind you. She’d cook and she’d clean a bit, but mostly she’d find someone else to do the work and you’d pay them. The house in Aspen was well run but I began to understand why Martina’s staff had ballooned to such ridiculous proportions.

  Judy has an unconscious motto: I can’t always do it the hard way but I can try. If there is any way to complicate a situation or add another person to it, she will.

  Martina handled these complications by withdrawing and by enjoying the occasional flirtation. Then, too, Martina’s profession rewarded her for keeping a false exterior. It became habit. She started being false at home. Even if she had been inclined to stop the Judy juggernaut, I don’t think she could have, because Martina won’t fight openly. If you want Judy to hear your point of view, don’t whisper. Shout. Judy has tunnel vision. If she wants to play golf and there’s a bear on the links, she’ll ignore the bear until it’s too late. She only sees her goals.

  Martina only sees her pleasures but over time she will listen to new and different ideas. She’s struggling to become who she can be for the rest of her life, and it isn’t easy. There are few curses worse than money and fame at a young age. If nothing else, Alice Marble taught me that and so did Alexis Smith, who possessed the extraordinary wisdom not to buy into it.

  Judy’s like a steamroller. I am not a person who makes emotional decisions quickly. In fact, I make few decisions quickly, although I can if I must. I like to think things through if there’s time. If not, I go with my instincts.

  I can be decisive in literary terms and with horses or animals, but with a decision like whether to try a new seed crop or find some more bottom land, I plan.

  Judy had moved in before I knew it. One day I walked back in the house after a road tour and the whole damn house had been rearranged with lots of gaudy crap in it. I nearly passed out. It’s a good thing Mother wasn’t alive or I would have flown her up here for a mighty move moment. Nobody could move furniture, in, out or around better than Juts.

  Exhausted, I said on my way to the bedroom, “Get this crap out of here.”

  She did, too.

  I’d turn around and there’d be a brand-new John Deere tractor in the shed. She wouldn’t wait to find a good used one. It had to be brand-new. Judy doesn’t even know how to drive a tractor.

  She bought trucks, she bought whatever she wanted without really examining it. And that went for horses, too.

  Most times I’ll vet a horse, including X rays, which are expensive, but money up front can save you a lot of money later. If she liked the way the horse looked, she’d buy it. I put my foot down and insisted on vetting, but a lot of times I wasn’t around when the siren song to spend money overtook her.

  I should never have let her in my house in the first place. I knew better. Her revenge against Martina hadn’t cooled completely and she needed to get on a more positive track for everyone’s health. No matter what Martina had done, she deserved a grand finale year. The one good thing about letting Judy on the farm was that I kept her busy.

  And she’d ride faithfully each day, which was important to me.

  She’d come down to the stable in her jeans and boots. Her hair would be pulled back and tucked under a cowboy hat (the pretty kind, not the working kind), her earrings in place, her lipstick freshly applied. She looked so uncountry, but this is her life—her appearance.

  It doesn’t matter how much you tart yourself up; if you’re fifty-two, you’re fifty-two. You might look like a great fifty-two, but why try to look young? Let the young have it. We had our shot.

  She paid for her face-lift with her MasterCard. That nearly sent me into the hospital myself from laughing so hard. Of course, I made the big mistake of telling Aunt Mimi, who then began to check the credit limit on her credit cards. After I told her she was too old for a face-lift, she didn’t speak to me for a few weeks.

  Well, time marched on and I wondered exactly how I had landed in this soup. I am not a passive person but I can have passive moments, especially if I’m internally exhausted. My guard was down. I think the damn settlement between Judy and Martina took more out of me than it took out of them, because I truly understood the political consequences. And I had to shut up. If anyone else who understood the consequences had tipped off the media, the Far Right might have exerted pressure to bring the suit to trial. They would have done this by sending a shill to woo Martina, not physically but intellectually, someone to heighten her anger.

  Besides, I don’t mind having someone fall all over me. I prefer it to be a trifle less mushy, but show me the woman who doesn’t like being told she’s special and I’ll show you a dead woman.

  I was seduced and I liked it. Judy has a great sense of humor, and that’s the first way to my heart. The second is horses, cats and dogs. She wouldn’t listen to my suggestions about riding and caring for her horses but she was out there every day. She gave it her all. Impressed me.

  There was little doubt in my mind that Judy didn’t love me. She needed me. She didn’t love me. Truth be told, I think I needed her, too. Without her struggle I couldn’t have healed my old wounds from the tennis days. I’d not taken the time to reexamine those experiences. As they were so fresh for Judy, they called up my memories.

  We shared riding together. Judy hops on the horse’s back and expects all will be well. I told her not to override her horses. She didn’t listen. She bowed Fayez’s tendons. Fayez, a good horse, deserved better than that. I turned him out for a year. Now he gives trail rides at a neighboring farm.

  I could have decked her for bowing that horse.

  Judy blew through her settlement money like a wind through Kansas. Poof, it was gone. I have never seen anyone spend money like that woman. It scared me.

  She wanted me to join her in an Argentinian investment, a factoring scheme. I think the technical term for such a thing is a Ponzi scheme. The investors take your money, promising a rate of return over a period of time, like a step deal. You invest $500,000. Twelve months later you receive $250,000. Every six months or one year thereafter you get $100,000 or some designated sum, which is the interest on your principal. Some interest. At any time the investors can return the full principal to you, but as long as they have your money they must guarantee this high rate of return.

  I remember standing in front of the tack shop in Camden, South Carolina, saying, “You go right ahead. I’ll watch.” I’m too dumb to play the stock market. All I understand is good land. How could I track investments in Argentina?

  She finally backed off. And I did buy a young horse from the guys in Buenos Aires, a Criollo called Toma. He’s a dream.

  Anyway, she lost that entire investment, and the rest she spent on stuff. But some of that stuff, like a shedrow barn, improved my farm.

  Fair is fair. I pay her back monthly for her improvements.

  I pity Judy. What does a woman who has made it on her looks do when she’s older? How do you learn the job skills the rest of us learned in our twenties and thirties?

  When Judy left me she didn’t leave in a huff. There wasn’t enough emotion in the relationship to get upset about it.

  And then, too, I had been a rock when she needed one. She bears me some residual gratitude. I’m grateful to her for allowing me to learn I can’t be in a relationship where ethics differ, nor can I abide being controlled.

  As for
Martina, she has never once thanked me for helping to keep her out of court, for going the extra mile.

  If she’d sat down alone with Judy in the beginning and just let Judy vent and wail, she’d have saved herself a whole lot of money. A couple of weeks of discomfort, some guilt, some anger, some sadness, and Martina could have spared herself a shabby episode.

  Few incidents in my middle age have troubled me as much as this one or reminded me how much I care about what happens to my people.

  Nobody cares about gay people. Black folks don’t want their queers. White people can’t stand theirs. Rich people send theirs to psychiatrists. Poor people kick theirs out on the street. Nobody wants us.

  I want us.

  We’ve got to stand up for one another.

  The funny thing is that I don’t feel especially gay. I never did. But hateful people force me to examine why they are hateful. Who gives them the right to judge? Who gives them the right to ostracize, fire, belittle or even kill?

  The differing forms of oppression—sexism, racism, religious persecution or hating homosexuals—are the same meat but different gravy. Sadly, many people in these disparate groups don’t understand how much they have in common with one another. It’s like a reverse snob game: Who is the most oppressed? Hey, who cares?

  Pain is pain. Get off your ass and fight back. Do you really believe if you don’t make common cause with me, the Man will give you a bigger crumb off his table?

  I don’t want to spend my life focusing on what is least interesting about me. And I’m not even a good lesbian. I’m much more bisexual, but if you want to step on my neck and call me a dyke, don’t be surprised if I sink my fangs into your ankle. I’m smart enough to know that the reality of who I am is not as important as what people perceive me to be. My reality is important to me. The public me is why I must fight.

  You can’t let people treat you like garbage. If you do, they’ll think you are.