Scissors, Paper, Stone

by Martha K. Davis

  Two or three times, while I’ve been in the garden calculating the work I know lies ahead, Laura has come to stand by my side and survey the wreckage with me. She has told me what she envisions. I’ve listened quietly, taking it in. I find Laura’s presence comforting. I have never felt this way about Min. Min has been a blessing in my life. She has been the object of my fiercest love, my deepest joy. She can be perceptive, sensitive, gentle, and rather brutally honest, but she has never been reassuring. She is someone to rely on, yes, but not to rest with. Even when she massages me, patiently rubbing my neck, my temples to help my headaches, I can never fully give myself into her hands. Maybe that’s normal. At least I try to believe it is. Maybe a mother must always be alert, keeping an eye out, even when her daughter is almost twenty-two.

  The garden will have to wait for another day.

  CHAPTER 9

  Laura

  Summer 1985

  MIN PUNCHES THE TAPE OFF. “Thank God,” I say, trying to make it sound like a joke. I’m sick of David Bowie.

  On every side of us, Utah’s flat terrain stretches out, dry and reddish brown. The road is laid down in the middle of it like a dark, shimmering ribbon. In the far distance, spots of green tease us. They’re the first hint of vegetation we’ve seen since leaving California, not counting the scrawny trees in the national park we spent last night in. I can feel the dust in my throat. I move my hand away from Min’s leg. I shift my feet, pushing candy wrappers, books, and a pair of sandals to the side, and find the water bottle. The hot air blows around us, making loose papers and open food bags flutter noisily. After a long swallow, I pass the water to Min. She smiles at me and reaches across for the bottle. I love her smile. I love everything about her.

  “I’ll feed it to you,” I offer, moving the bottle to her lips.

  Min shakes her head, and the plastic rim scrapes lightly against her cheek. “Just give it to me,” she says, frowning, grabbing the bottle away from me. What did I do? She swallows in large gulps, tipping the bottle back each time. I reach out to wipe a trickle of sweat from the back of her neck, then rub the same place, where I know she gets stiff from driving. Now that we’re finally lovers, I don’t want to stop touching her.

  She returns the bottle. “Just hand it to me when I’m driving,” she says. I screw the cap back on. I was only trying to help. It wouldn’t kill her to appreciate me a little. I toss the bottle on top of the bag of gorp by my feet. I look out the window, but the landscape hasn’t changed. I’m still thirsty.

  So far, we’ve avoided the cities, stopping in towns that are just one street and at truck stops. Min likes the sense of being alone in this empty countryside. She says that with no people around she can see that the deserts are full of life. She likes coming over a small hill and discovering new stretches of sagebrush or an occasional rock formation. She says even the cracks running through the parched earth are gorgeous. I think the land is flat and endless and dull. It doesn’t give anything back. I’m restless to see architecture. At night, the lights of a city reassure me far more than the thousand bright stars in the sky. But I’ve been happy to stay clear of the bigger towns because I want to have her all to myself.

  Last night, using our single flashlight, we figured out how to spread our sleeping bags flat, one on top of the other, and zip them together. We got in and stayed on our separate sides. Inside the tent was completely dark. With Min only inches away, I was wide awake. Zipping together the sleeping bags had been her idea. Lying near her, I was afraid that something might happen, and I was terrified that it wouldn’t. All summer she had been ignoring my hints, but I thought there was an energy between us. I wasn’t sure. I’d been burned too often with guys, when it turned out that our mutual attraction was all in my head. With Min I was even more unsure. The boundaries of her relationships confused me. There seemed to be some kind of sexual attraction with everybody she knew.

  Eventually I got up the nerve to reach out and touch her face. My hand fumbled a little before finding her cheek because I couldn’t see. “Are you asleep?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered. “Are you?”

  I smiled. “I can’t,” I said. I took my hand away. I could hear her body sliding around on the sleeping bag’s nylon shell as she tried to find a com fortable position. I couldn’t tell if she was restless and wide awake for the same reason I was. I thought, Why won’t she make the first move? She’s the lesbian.

  Somewhere outside the tent, a bird called out. The hard ground beneath me dug into my side. As far as I knew, Min and I were in the only part of eastern Nevada that had lakes, full-grown trees, and birds. We were miles away from any other people. This thought both frightened me and gave me courage.

  “I want to kiss you,” I whispered into the dark.

  At first Min didn’t say anything, and I thought she might have fallen asleep after all. Then “Okay” came drifting back from the darkness on her side of the sleeping bag, sounding just as scared as I was.

  “Well, where are you?” I asked, reaching out a tentative hand and making contact with her shoulder.

  She caught my hand in hers and pulled me closer. We put our arms around each other. Because I couldn’t see her anyway, I closed my eyes. We brushed our faces together. I kissed her cheek. Then I kissed the corner of her mouth. The darkness made everything easier. She pressed her mouth against mine, hard, so that I could feel the bone of her jaw behind the flesh, and then she eased back. I felt her tongue against my lips, opening them. I remembered we had done this once before, in seventh grade. But that had been when we were boy-crazy and didn’t count. As we kissed last night, I felt I was in freefall, like I had walked off a cliff. I thought, amazed, How did this happen?

  I was a little afraid of lying on top of her. I was used to men, who were bigger than me, and heftier, harder to reach around and hold with both my arms. On the hard ground, with only the tent floor and one of the sleeping bags to cushion us, we touched each other carefully. Now and then we asked permission. It only occurred to me after it was over and we were lying quietly together that this is what lovers do when they care about each other. The enjoyment is in pursuing the other’s pleasure, not only your own. The men I had been with had been oblivious, but I’d always assumed there was something wrong with me for wanting more.

  Eventually, Min unzipped and pushed away the top sleeping bag, then lay on her stomach, her head between my legs. At first I felt self-conscious and wanted to pull her back up. I was surprised when I came. It made me feel even more exposed. I reached down for her and she held me, covering me. Her face was wet. I shuddered, clinging to her.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For what?” Min asked.

  “What you just did. Nobody ever did that before.”

  She lifted her head from my shoulder. “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” I said, relieved that she couldn’t see my face. “Actually, you’re the first person I ever had an orgasm with.” I was ashamed to admit that, but I wanted her to know how much it mattered to me. Before Min, I had had sex with exactly three men. One of those relationships had lasted almost a year, but as much as I had loved him, it had never quite felt like making love. Not one of them had done what Min had just done for me. My first lover said he didn’t like the smell, and I never asked again. Min seemed to enjoy it. Maybe, some day in the far future, I would learn to receive that gift from her without such awed gratitude, like it was something everyday—even expected. I was in love with Min, I realized, holding her tight against me. I had always wondered why our friendship felt more like a long-term love affair to me than any relationship I had with a man. But I never could have put it into words. I understood too why Min had never fallen in love with even one of all the women she’s been with. In a way, we had been together all along. I didn’t want to ever let her go. I gripped her tighter, wanting to cry. Maybe after about ten years of being lovers I would start to take her for granted. But I doubted it.

  As we approach it, S
alt Lake City looks like any other American city. We drive past farms, a few factories. The land starts to get crowded with houses. Even the city is absolutely flat, like the rest of the state. There’s no obvious downtown, no hub of skyscrapers. There are no clear landmarks of any kind, no easy ways to get our bearings. Except for the lake. The sun looms over the horizon to our left, a big orange disk spreading rose and lilac across the sky. The lake mirrors the colors exactly.

  For almost three days, driving through Nevada and Utah, we haven’t passed one lake or river. Earlier today we saw, way off in the distance, a long stretch of land that glittered a dull white. At first we guessed it was something left over from a nuclear testing site. I checked the map and read “Sevier Lake (Dry).” Until then, we hadn’t thought about the salt lakes at all. We tried to imagine the kind of desert heat and centuries of time it would have taken to evaporate that huge a body of water, leaving only the salt behind, like ashes after a fire. Now that we’re here in the city, Min wants to go down to the shore of the Great Salt Lake and watch the sun set over the water. I would love to see the sunset with Min. I would stand with my arms around her and watch her face change in as many ways as the sky. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s past six already, and Neil, my father’s friend, is expecting us to arrive at his house for dinner.

  We get lost only once, turning right instead of left, but we figure it out after a few blocks. We pass a mall, restaurants, what we assume are office buildings. It’s Friday, and people are still leaving work. Otherwise, the streets are mostly empty. A few large families with young kids wander toward the mall, and a group of teenagers is hanging out together. The traffic is light too. We’re the only car I can see with the windows rolled down.

  “It’s really deserted,” I say.

  “It’s really white,” Min says.

  She drives slowly, squinting at the street signs. At first I think she means the buildings, which are all gray and white and beige. Then I realize she means the people, and I almost say, surprised, “What did you expect?” but I don’t. Until she mentioned it, I hadn’t noticed. What I’m struck by is how Middle America everybody looks, how bland. I see only one boy wearing a baseball cap, and it’s not bright purple with yellow zigzags, the fabric hand-woven in Guatemala, like Min’s. The women all have long, styled hair. They wear dresses or pleated pants, even in the heat. Nobody is wearing Birkenstocks or baggy men’s boxers or labrys earrings like Min’s, much less four in one ear plus an earcuff. Even I, in khaki shorts and sneakers, look more like the teenaged boys than the women. We drive through, not saying a word.

  As we head into the suburbs on the other side of town, Min sees a Dairy Queen and gets so excited that I can’t turn her down this time. I check my watch. We’ll only take fifteen minutes. Inside, a crew of children is having a birthday party at the front tables, blowing their noise-makers in each other’s faces and pulling down the streamers. I smile at them, remembering picnics and bowling parties back in Middlebury when I was little. A few of them crane their necks as we walk past, peering at us. One of them points. I tell myself he probably wants Min’s colorful baseball cap. We order and walk with our ice cream to a booth in the back. But it’s hard to ignore the father and son duo. The son, who is maybe eight or nine, is dressed in jeans, boots, a plaid shirt, and a Stetson, exactly like his father. I would be amused, or amazed, and gawk right back at them, but the hardness in their eyes as they check out Min, who is leading the way to our booth, scares me. They hate her without even knowing her. Even the little boy. I feel a shiver at the back of my neck.

  When we sit down, Min is smirking. “What a trip. Like father, like son, huh?” She pulls off her purple cap. Her spiky hair is damp with sweat and a few clumps lie plastered to her skin. She rubs her temples, pushing the hair off her forehead, then starts in on her hot fudge sundae.

  I push my dish of raspberry frozen yogurt away. “Didn’t you see how they were looking at you? How can you ignore that?”

  Min sucks in her lower lip and slowly edges her spoon through her dessert. Then she holds the plastic spoon out to me. On it is the maraschino cherry, peeking out from a blanket of fudge sauce. I love maraschino cherries. I put my mouth over it and pull slowly away, savoring the mix of impossibly sweet flavors on my tongue. I don’t even realize I’ve closed my eyes until I open them and see Min’s face. The lust in her eyes is just as startling as the cowboy and his son’s bare loathing. I have never been sure of anybody’s attraction to me. I’ve never known for certain that I am desirable just from a look. I need to be told, or shown. But what I see when Min gazes at me over her white plastic spoon is unmistakable. I feel the muscles between my legs tighten. Behind me, I know they are still staring. I look down at the table.

  After we’ve eaten for a while in silence, I say, “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Shit.” Min jams her spoon into the mound of ice cream she is eating from and leaves it there. I can’t tell if she’s angry at me or something else. She leans back, stretching, her hands clasped above her head. Her t-shirt reads, “Love is Just a Four-Letter Word.” An ex-lover gave it to her. She has cut out the neck and the sleeves. She brings her arms down again. “What do you want me to do, Laura? What do you fucking expect me to do?” Her voice is louder than I’d like.

  “Well,” I begin, knowing I am about to make her angrier, but feeling I have to say it. “Maybe you could wear regular earrings, and just one in each ear. Maybe you could dress a little differently.”

  “You think that will change something?”

  “I don’t know. It might. At least you wouldn’t be advertising yourself.”

  “As what?”

  “You know, as a lesbian.”

  A muscle in her jaw twitches. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. She opens her eyes. She says, “Look at me, Laura. Dress me in anything you want. What do you see?”

  I look at her boy’s hair, at the salamander tattooed on her wrist. She’s got her arms stretched out along the top of the blue plastic seat like she owns it and she’s ready to fight anybody who says she doesn’t. She hasn’t done one thing to make herself look pretty. It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. I love her more than anything. It shouldn’t matter what other people think.

  When I don’t answer, she says, “What you see is a dyke. An Asian dyke.” I think she wants to hurt me with the blunt ugliness of the word.

  My frozen yogurt is a raspberry puddle half filling the cup. I stir it around while I try to let what she has said sink in. My heart is beating hard. I know that what is happening right now is important. I can’t mess it up.

  I take her hand and hold it resting on the table. I know everybody in the place must be watching. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” I look only at her, but it’s an effort not to glance around. “I’m sorry I asked you to hide who you are. You don’t want to. I understand that.”

  “I can’t hide who I am,” she says, very quietly and very carefully.

  I feel her start to pull her hand away. I grip it tighter. “You can’t hide that you’re Asian,” I offer. Personally, I doubt her race has anything to do with the hatred I saw coming from the father-son pair three booths behind me. They’ve probably never even seen any Asians before.

  “I can’t hide that I’m a lesbian either,” Min says.

  I think she can. Not that she necessarily should, but I think it is possible. She takes her hand from mine. I look into her deep, black eyes, and I don’t recognize her in them. I feel afraid.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The sun has dipped below the houses across the street, throwing long shadows across the lawn, when Min and I pull into the semicircular driveway in front of Neil’s house. Two sprinklers whisper on the grass. I wish I could lie below their spray, the weight of the earth at my back.

  We’re almost an hour later than I told Neil we’d be. Maybe we should have called. He’s probably pissed at us for keeping t
hem waiting. I cut the engine, and we sit inside the car, staring up at the white stone house. The pink sky is reflected in the rows of black-shuttered windows. There are dormer windows on the third floor, and a porch around the side. Flower beds border the house. The front door looks like oak, with stained-glass panels flanking it. I remember my father saying that Neil and Olivia had their house built. It dwarfs the other ranch houses on the street, making them look shabby.

  Despite our stop at the Dairy Queen, I can’t break the rhythm of the drive. We could still be on our two-lane highway, mile after mile of parched, empty land rushing by. I feel the road rolling away beneath the car’s tires.

  “It’s so white,” I say, meaning the house, and I look over, expecting Min to smile. The car’s engine whirrs inside me, a low hum, a vibration.

  “It’s so big,” she says, staring.

  I reach out and take her hand. I know she’d rather stay in an anonymous motel or in our tent in the desert than spend an evening with unknown friends of my father. The promise of a real bed doesn’t lure her the way it does me. I grin at her. Looking at Min today, I feel like a totally new person. We’re meant to be together. How come we never figured that out before now?

  She leans over to kiss me. I pretend I don’t know what she’s doing. I lean away, pulling my hand from hers, and start to open my door. I’m afraid we’ll be seen from one of the rose-tinted windows. We’re a couple now, but I don’t want Neil and his wife to know that.

  “We should tell them we’re here,” I say. Then I realize Min doesn’t care if they find out about our relationship. She doesn’t know them and will probably never see them again. She has no reason to act like we’re still just friends. But after our scene at the Dairy Queen, I don’t dare ask anything else of her.