“Didn’t you enjoy any of it? Take a left.”
“Yes. I loved walking in – the gardens. Do you have a five?”
“Here.”
“Thanks. Besides, I got a letter from Evelyn that shook me up.”
“She phoned.”
“Evelyn did?” Quiola braked, rolled down the window, paid the short-term fee. “I can’t believe it. What did she say?”
“Nothing. I was feeding Amelia, the phone rang, I answered, it was Evelyn. She asked for you, I told her you were away, and then I hung up on her. Want to take the Merritt? It will put a half-hour on the trip, but it’s much prettier. So, what did Evelyn’s letter say?”
“That she would kill me.”
“You’re kidding. That’s crazy talk.”
“Well, she’s bi-polar, among other things.”
“Great. Other things, such as?”
“Such as being a prescription drug addict.”
“Oh. Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”
“I couldn’t. I felt like a failure. I was ashamed.”
“Oh, please. Her problems aren’t your fault.”
“She thinks they’re all my fault. Anyway, her letter was creepy, so I burnt it.”
“But you don’t believe her? She wouldn’t –”
“I don’t know what she’d do. Honestly. She’s made of steel and she’s capable of brutal things when she’s angry. Once, she cut up some Christmas ornaments my mother had sewn into a million little pieces, with a pair of pinking shears.”
“But that’s just spiteful. Small.”
“And emotionally brutal. Nothing can replace those ornaments.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Maybe.” Quiola frowned. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
♦
In early 1986, several weeks into the spring semester at Berkeley, Quiola went to get her long hair cut short for the first time ever and on a whim. She chose a salon on Shattuck Avenue, quite near the University, an easy walk to after class. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the glass door. Tech-Tops was a big place, with twelve stylists, bleach-blond hardwood floors, potted palms, pink sinks and black stations. She asked the receptionist for the first available stylist. Which is how she met Evelyn Porter.
Meanwhile, C.C., back in New York and feeling lost without Quiola, stewed about how things between them had gone south. By the time she collected enough nerve to phone, singing, “I left my heart in San Francisco –” Quiola had been seeing Evelyn for almost a month.
“Oh, please!” she said. “I’ve only been out here for a little while, and you’ve never even been to the West Coast for a visit. Not once.”
“Details,” said C.C. She sat down on the couch in the Chelsea apartment, figuring the time difference, embarrassed she hadn’t thought of it before picking up the phone. “How was the move?” she asked.
“It was a move.”
“And how do you like it out there?”
Quiola took a blue metal folding chair and sat on it backwards. “I love San Francisco. But Berkeley is something else again. The department is small, competitive. I feel left out.”
“Come home, then.”
“I am home.“ She smiled across her apartment’s small living room; her mother’s old steamer trunk served as coffee table, she had an easel, four empty jars full of various sized brushes, a drop cloth, a framed Moore, a gift of C.C.’s and Evelyn, a tall, square-shouldered brunette dressed in faded straight-legged jeans and a striped t-shirt.
“I’m sorry,” said C.C. “You never will be a California girl. You’re a New Yorker as much as I am.”
“But I was born in Minnesota, just like Liz.”
“Details. Anyway, I don’t see the point of taking a degree. It’s silly. You’re an artist, you practice – it’s your work. School is a waste of time.”
“Not to me. With a degree, I can teach anywhere.”
“You can always teach.”
“It’s not the same. A degree gets you more. Why don’t you visit? The weather is phenomenal. I’ve never seen the sky so blue as this spring. And the flowers! In Berkeley, everyone’s garden seems overrun by bougainvillea.”
“By what?”
“Bougainvillea – it’s a flowering vine. Lovely.” She glanced over to Evelyn again and mouthed silently, “you are lovely.”
Evelyn shrugged and left the room, her black stiletto heels tip-tapping.
“And is Frisco as dyke-friendly as people say?” asked C.C.
“Absolutely. Hey, that reminds: have you heard about this thing, this gay disease they’re calling AIDS?”
“The gay cancer?”
Quiola shifted the phone from one ear to the other, and frowned. “Last summer, I think it was, the CDC named it ‘acquired immune deficiency syndrome’. I don’t know much about it – guess I’ve been too wrapped up in my own stuff. But it seems to be fatal, and the men here are scared.”
“Why? You can’t catch cancer.”
“I don’t know, C.C. but a lot of gay guys I know are sick with fear. People have died. I’ve heard people say it’s a gay epidemic that will wipe out all the queers and clean up the streets. You know? Vile stuff.”
“Then be careful.”
“I’m not the target – the guys are.”
“When people get vile about sex, they get vile. How are things otherwise?”
“Fine, really.”
“You do sound well.”
“I am.”
Evelyn came back into the living room from the kitchen with a container of strawberry Dannon yogurt.
“But you’re not sure about Berkeley,” said C.C. “The program, I mean.”
“I’ve made friends outside the program. In fact, one of them is here now, so I should hang up before I bore her to tears.”
“Not a student?”
“No. A hairdresser. Evelyn. Evelyn Porter.”
At the sound of her name, Evelyn turned and mouthed, “Hang up that phone. Now.”
“A hairdresser? How useful!” said C.C. “Then again, what can she do for you? All you do is make one big braid out of that glorious mess you call your hair.”
“I know. Gotta run.”
“All right. I’ll call back in a few days. Don’t get into trouble.”
“I won’t. Bye.” As she eased the phone back into its cradle, Evelyn walked over and said, “I’m bored. Come here and make love to me.” She pulled Quiola roughly to her feet, kissed her, hard, then half lifted, half-carried her to the bedroom. Panting and nearly ripping her t-shirt as she yanked it over her dark head, she pinned Quiola to the futon, clumsily unbuttoned her shirt, kissed the base of her new lover’s neck, then nosed her way past the shirt collar to bite down, breaking tender flesh.
♦
A warm, single light beamed from the shed’s living-room window as Quiola drove Moby up the driveway, the tires crunching gravel; she pulled on the brake. “Home, almost. I’m starving.”
“Well, Amelia isn’t. I fed her before I left to pick you up.”
“I really should go and –”
“Not without eating. Amelia’s fine.”
“How has your appetite been?”
“Better.” C.C. opened the car door and stepped out into the warm August twilight, the rich summer smell of mown grass on the dampish air. “I’m so happy to have you back!”
“I’ll just leave the bags in the car. Okay?”
“Fine with me.”
“I’m sometimes amazed,” said Quiola as C.C. unlocked the chipping white-painted front door, “that the ‘shed’ doesn’t just fall down around your ears.”
“Here we are –” and C.C. stepped inside, letting out a wash of cool air.
“You’re running the AC?”
“For you – welcome home.” The dining-area table had a vase of sweet-smelling hyacinth on it and was set for two: jaunty blue and yellow stripe place mats and napkins.
“Oh, C.C., you shouldn’t have bothered yourself so much!�
��
“Not a bother. Cheap and cheerful seemed the way to go, like the turbans.”
“And how was Valerie?”
“Older – as are we all. It was nice to spend time with her. Lizzie called every Monday, to check in, and I’ve been keeping tabs on Mother, although I haven’t had the heart to go up there but once. Poor Mom. She enjoys the visit, but hasn’t a clue who I am. Let’s get dinner up and running.”
In a few moments, the microwave whirred and binged, filling the small house with the mingled fragrance of garlic, tomatoes and basil. C.C. cut lasagne squares, retrieved two small salads from the fridge, while Quiola opened a bottle of wine. When they sat down, C.C. said, “So I’ve decided. I want a wig. Is the pasta hot enough?”
“Plenty. Why do you want a wig?”
“Because the turban is okay at home, but I want hair.”
“I truly thought you didn’t mind bald.”
“I didn’t, when it was my choice. It isn’t a choice anymore – I’m smooth as an egg, I don’t have an eyelash in my head, I look like an alien. I want to look semi-normal. And I want a breast to replace the one they took from me.”
“A breast? Have you talked about this with Dr. Shea?”
“Uh-huh. She’ll write me a prescription.”
“For a breast implant?”
“No, silly. I don’t want any more surgery, and I don’t fancy putting anything like silicon into my system.” She took a sip of wine. “Chemo was rough enough. No, I want a fake to fill me out.”
“You are too much.”
“More like my old self, anyway.”
“Amen to that.” Fingering the glass stem, she lifted the wine for a toast.
♦
In pigtails, C.C. put a scabby elbow atop her mother’s scarred vanity table. Nancy brushed out her own curls, tamed by nightly rollers so that she had a gentle wave many women envied – which she well knew. It was one of her secret prides.
“Charlotte, how old are you now?”
“You know, Mommy.”
“Of course I do but tell me anyway.” Static electricity snapped as Nancy brushed.
C.C. rubbed one eye, pushed an errant curl from her own damp forehead and said, “Eleven.”
“A big girl.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
Nancy opened one of the vanity’s side drawers to select a lipstick, one so well-used the gold fill of the casing was worn to a dull brass. “Would you like to try Tangee?”
“No – ick!”
“Don’t you think your mother is pretty?”
“Oh, yes, Mommy, yes. I think you are the prettiest of them all.”
“And don’t you want to grow up to be a pretty lady, like your Mother?”
C.C. picked at a scab. “Do I have to?”
Nancy laughed and, leaning into the mirror pursed her lips, smoothing on the Tangee. She puckered, blotted and said, “Well, sweetheart, I don’t know if you have to. What do you want to grow up to be?”
“I want to be a painter. Like Aunt Liz.”
“Charlotte Clio! And here I thought you loved me best.”
“Oh, Mommy, of course I love you best.”
“But you enjoy your drawing lessons, hmm?”
“Oh, I do. Today I sketched Nadine.” Nadine was one of Liz Moore’s three Siamese queens. “Tomorrow, I’ll try my feet.”
“Your feet?”
“From life, my own bare feet.”
“Well,” said Nancy, turning back to her mirror to powder her face. “Liz does favor bare feet. I suppose you take off your shoes, when you’re up at her studio?”
“Sometimes. Not all the time. Where are you and Daddy going tonight?”
“To the Finn’s, for dinner. We won’t be long. Aunt Liz will be here. You will mind what she says?”
“I will,” said C.C. sliding one foot forward and back against the hardwood floor. “But sometimes Ted doesn’t.”
“Oh? And what about Tucker?”
“Aw, Mom, he’s just a baby.”
“I see.” Choosing a large, beveled bottle of Joy perfume, Nancy slipped the stopper off and dabbed at the back of her ears, then her wrists. “I’ll talk to Ted.”
“Don’t tell him I tattled, will you, Mommy? Please?”
“Of course not. Now, come here –” Nancy opened her arms and took her daughter gently by the shoulders, making the girl walk close. “Let me see you. Sweetheart, you are pretty, but you are going to be a very pretty young lady. Let me show you something –” and as she said this, she began unraveling her daughter’s pigtails, loosening the braids carefully until she could brush through the kinks. “Close your eyes,” she said, and began carefully making up her daughter’s face, with a touch of rouge, a dust of powder, light eyeliner, mascara and Tangee. Smoothing the girl’s hair away from her cheeks, she turned her daughter to the mirror and said, “Now open your eyes.”
C.C. stared at her transformed face, polished like an old-fashioned porcelain doll.
“What do you think, sweetheart?”
“Mommy, I look like that man.”
“A man? What man?”
“The one with the big, sad lips and the red nose we saw at the circus.”
“Oh my dear!” Nancy snagged a tissue from a box and carefully wiped away the make-up on her daughter’s lips and face. “You mean Weary Willy? Oh, honey. You don’t look like anything like a clown.”
“Yes I do,” said C.C. through the tissue. “Just like that man.”
♦
“You are such a clown,” said Liz as she put on a pair of canvas gloves.
Paul stopped dancing with the Siamese Tom, Schmoe. Schmoe’s version of dancing was to rear up on his hind paws and slash out at Paul, who dangled a string. The only male Liz owned, Schmoe was spoiled and he had a thing for string. That afternoon they were out in the potting “shed”, a lean-to with a green, corrugated roof, attached to the back of Liz’s dove-grey saltbox studio on Montauk. Because of that roof, everything inside the lean-to on a sunny day took on a sickly cast.
“When is C.C. coming over?” Paul put down Schmoe’s toy, and leaned back against the warped wooden potting table.
Liz separated seedlings. “Soon. I decided on cherry tomatoes this year. And I want to try corn. Nothing tastes so fine as fresh corn. And strawberries, and sugar-snap peas, maybe lettuces.”
“Good thing you’ve got all these cats prowling about. Otherwise a bunny might devastate the pea patch.”
“Where is Schmoe?”
Paul thumbed over his shoulder. “I saw him heading for Nadine out by the oak.”
“Good. Anyway, just what do you think of B Two?”
He sniffed. “I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Yes you have – I caught you sneaking a peek.”
“What about that other sketch – the bright burning child?”
Liz frowned and said slowly. “I don’t know what it is, yet. The image just came to me – maybe it’s for next year. And B Two?”
“It’s sad. Dark and sad.”
“I worry.”
“That’s obvious. Should we also worry about C.C.? Isn’t she late?”
Liz glanced at her watch. “Not really but she’ll get here when she gets here.”
“She seems fond of you.”
“She’s a sweet kid.”
“And her mother, too, is fond of you.”
“As I am, of her.”
“How fond?”
“Paul! Do I detect jealousy? You know she helped me out when I was down.”
“And didn’t I gain by it? Your friendship, I mean. Gaine’s gains.”
“Well, sir I suppose you did, since she introduced you to me and me to you. Which I suppose means I ‘gaines’ two friends.”
“Uh-huh. Two, for the price of one. Or three, if you count Tom.”
Liz chuckled, watering a flat of parsley. “Tom is a good man – cuckoo, but a good man.” She straightened up. “However did you two meet, anyway?”
Pau
l folded his boxer’s muscled arms. “I didn’t meet him. Like you, I met Nancy. She was a regular at my gallery in the Village, so I took care to meet her. Here was this well-heeled young lady all by her lonesome asking after my work. Of course when I found out she was married – what’s wrong? Hey, are you all right?”
“No –” she breathed, her face white to the lips. She was staring over his shoulder through the window, so he turned around, but all he saw was little Charlotte Davis, dawdling with the two cats, who’d come away from their tryst to meet her.
“Good God, Liz, it’s only C.C. Who’d you think it was, a ghost?”
“Why is she bald?”
“Bald?” He turned around again. “What the – she’s not bald.”
“But –” Liz put down her spade and walked briskly around to the outdoors, where she could see in an instant that the child wasn’t bald. Yet she’d been so sure – “What happened to your pigtails?”
C.C. looked up from the cats, and reached back to touch the French roll her mother had, by force and hair spray, shaped her kinky hair into, then turned her head to show Liz. “Do you like it?”
“Very smart.”
“Mom thinks I’m too old, now, for pig-tails.”
“I see.” Liz folded her arms. “Pearls, furs and high-heels are next?”
“No. I like me the way I am.”
Paul came out of the lean-to laughing. “Me, too, sweetie pie,” he said. “I like my girls just the way they are.”
♦
Armed with a curly blond wig and her brand-new breast, C.C. stepped out of the cab at the corner of 50th and 5th, Quiola behind her. The cab was instantly re-occupied. The two women made their way from the crowded, sunny street to the grand old plate-glass windows and revolving doors of Saks Fifth Avenue.
“I haven’t been here in a donkey’s age,” said C.C., glancing up at the phalanx of American flags waving over her wigged head.
Inside, the air was sweet with perfume. They stood for a moment next to winter hats and wool scarves, looking down the hard-wood floor corridor at the oak and glass cabinets, those graceful old display cabinets inside which, on one side of the aisle, jewelry sparkled in the department store lights and on the other side, cosmetics and perfume. People, lightly bundled up against the early winter chill, rushed in behind them, then slowed as they made their way into whichever section of the store they’d chosen as a destination, or simply wandered up the center aisle.
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