Women of the Mean Streets

by J. M. Redmann

“I told her that. She said, ‘Yeah, and you and Jennie bitched about how stupid it was for me to buy it. So now I want something more than the RV. I want’—oh, whatever her name is—Camille? I can’t remember.”

  “So? She can have her. Just don’t sell the RV to buy a goddamned ring.”

  “Nora said, ‘What do I need that hunk of junk for anyway? I never use it.’”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I said, ‘You’ve traveled all over North America in that hunk of junk. You’re a travel writer.’”

  “To which she responded?”

  “She said, ‘Not anymore. I quit the travel desk.’”

  “What the fuck, Lila? She’s wanted that job all her life. Why?”

  “Guess?”

  “So she wouldn’t have to travel so much and be away from what’s-her-name.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Her name is Bingo?”

  “No, her name is not Bingo. It’s—shit—my memory is so gone.”

  “It’s probably Buffy or something—you know how these society people name their children stupid names, but I’d never heard Bingo before.”

  “Would you forget about Bingo? Her name isn’t Bingo.”

  “Okay, okay. Well, what’s Nora going to write for? The society page?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Now you’re kidding. She knows as much about society as I know about astrophysics.”

  “So what? What’s-her-name’s folks are really, really rich. They own half of downtown Houston, including the paper where Nora works.”

  “Aha.”

  “Indeed. So, they love their baby girl, and she wants her new girlfriend to stay home. Bingo! Nora gets the society page.”

  “I thought you said her name wasn’t Bingo. Make up your mind, would you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, would you just forget about it…it’s just an expression…never mind…clearly Nora’s having a mid-life crisis. Or a mental breakdown. I told her that. She said, ‘Bullshit.’”

  “That’s all? ‘Bullshit’?”

  “Yeah, I know. So I said, “’Nora, remember who you’re talking to here. It’s me, Lila. Your best friend since junior high school.’”

  “Wait a minute. How old is this woman?”

  “You know, I asked her that very question. She said, ‘What do you mean “this woman”? You know what her name is. Call her by her name.’”

  “God, she is such a child. What’s the woman’s name again?”

  “I told you already. I can’t remember. Something like—Candella?”

  “I think it’s kind of sweet in a way.”

  “Guess how old she is?”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “She’s five years younger than Nora’s youngest child!”

  “I pointed that out to her. She said, very sarcastically: ‘Lila, you know what your problem is? You’re ageist.’”

  “What’s that mean? Is that one of those politically correct words?”

  “Right. Like sexist. Only ageist. She said that you and I need to go out more. She said, “You two never go out—you’re insulated, cut off from the community, new ideas—you need to meet younger lesbians.’”

  “Like her new girlfriend?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Hmmmm…how much is she asking for the RV?”

  “Nine thousand—that’s what the dealer said she could probably get. She’s putting an ad in the paper this weekend.”

  “She paid over thirty thousand dollars for that thing. It’s worth a lot more than nine thousand.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So—you wanna buy it?”

  “It would serve her right if we did. Then when Carmen dumps her—”

  “You’d sell it back to her.”

  “Probably.”

  “Did you see the rings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are they gorgeous?”

  “Custom made. Diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires.”

  “Did you ask her why she’s doing this crazy thing?”

  “She says she wants to show this woman how much she loves her—how wonderful her life’s been since she met her.”

  “Yeah, well, it sounds like a disaster in the making to me. Giving up the job she’s always wanted, selling her beloved RV—”

  “I pointed that out. She said it’s called ‘change,’ which we would know if we ever left the house. She said all we do is sit on our patio and barbecue.”

  “We do so change. We went to San Francisco last year instead of Provincetown. That’s change.”

  “I don’t know. It is kind of sweet that she’s selling her RV to buy the woman a ring.”

  “I assume they’re having some kind of lame union ceremony?”

  “The invitations are in the mail.”

  “Do we have to go?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re going.”

  “Oh, God, I hate those things. All those flakey, New-Age vows they write themselves…”

  “Then forget them halfway through?”

  “And the guitar player who’s had two lessons on the Internet singing some sappy love song.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Still…it is sweet, in a way. You never sold anything of yours to buy me a diamond ring.”

  “Ha! I sold my soul to the devil for you, sweetheart.”

  “You did not.”

  “Did too. It was positively Faustian. I promised if only you would break up with Barbara, I’d give him my soul.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I tried God first. He didn’t respond. So I tried the devil. It worked.”

  “That is sick, Jennie. I can’t believe you’re telling me this. After all these years?”

  “C’mon, honey…I’m kidding.”

  “No, you’re not. I know when you’re kidding.”

  III.

  “Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry, Flynn.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s life, huh?”

  “When did you find out?”

  “I went to St. Louis to visit her for a couple weeks—you know, over spring break. There were some suspicious phone calls, people giving me funny looks—”

  “What do you mean—funny looks?”

  “I don’t how to describe it, I just started feeling weird vibes.”

  “And?”

  “And there was a party and I noticed this one woman—Melissa—looking at Stef—I can’t explain how I knew. You know? It was just a feeling.”

  “And you were right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t make me torture you to get the details, Flynn.”

  “I found some letters, okay?”

  “Found?”

  “Okay, I ransacked her room and found them in the bottom of an old trunk. I’m not proud of it, but I was desperate.”

  “The letters were from Melissa?”

  “There were some from her—yeah.”

  “Some? You’re implying there were others? She slept with somebody besides Melissa?”

  “Oh, yeah. A bunch.”

  “How many are in a bunch?”

  “A dozen?”

  “Oh, Flynn. God, how awful. You must feel terrible. Anybody I know?”

  “Do you know my friend Babs who lives in Key West? Stef and I went down there last Christmas to visit.”

  “Yeah, I remember you talking about her. Oh, for Christ’s sake, she didn’t sleep with Babs?”

  “No, she slept with Babs’s lover, Dana.”

  “That tramp! When?”

  “While we were there. Dana and Stef got real chummy, and Babs and I thought it was so sweet that they were being friends. They went off dancing to a club a few times. Apparently after the first time, they skipped the dancing and just went to a hotel downtown. They wrote each other, and Dana visited her when she was in St. Louis on business.”

  “Good grief. Does Babs know?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her.”

 
“I know you must feel terrible, sweetie.”

  “Well, I’d feel better if I had back all the money I spent on the little shit over the last five years.”

  “So—what happened?”

  “Nothing, I never told Stef about the letters. I didn’t say anything to her really.”

  “You haven’t told her you know?”

  “I told her I knew about Melissa a couple months ago. But I’d already started seeing a woman that I met—you’ll love this. I met her at the Garden Club.”

  “I thought only little old ladies belonged to Garden Clubs.”

  “Hey, I am a little old lady. So is Iris.”

  “Hold on. Her name is Iris, and she belongs to the Garden Club?”

  “Yeah, everybody makes jokes about it. Anyway, she’s great. A little older than me—fiftyish. We have a lot in common and—here’s the good part—she’s rich!”

  “How rich?”

  “Well, she’s an antique dealer. She has her own shop down on Overton Square—very posh. Anyway, we started seeing each other in July.”

  “Have you told Stefanie about Iris?”

  “Yeah, I told her last week.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “That was kind of weird, actually. She got really mad. Threw things—broke all those dishes I bought for her birthday last year.”

  “Wow.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to call and fill you in. I’m going away with Iris for a few weeks. We’re going to Mexico first and then to Barbados.”

  “Who’s paying for all this?”

  “Well, she has a house in Baja. We’re going to stay there for a week or so. But she offered to pay—just as well. I’m broke!”

  IV.

  “Just give me the highlights of the conversation, okay? I don’t think I have the stomach for the sordid details.”

  “Nora’s selling the house.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “She said it’s too big for just her. Candy took the dogs. Nora said she doesn’t have the energy to take care of the yard, and the hot tub and the pool. I know those things cost a fortune to heat and clean. I believe it was me who tried to tell her that before Candy talked her into buying that stuff. Now Nora says every time she looks out the window, it reminds her of Candy. Frankly, I don’t think she can afford to live there anymore.”

  “Well, where’s she going?”

  “She’s going to live in her parents’ garage apartment.”

  “Oh, come on. That apartment is the size of one of her closets.”

  “Not to mention having to listen to your parents say, ‘I told you so.’But she can live there for free, and she says she doesn’t need much room.”

  “Her mother will drive her crazy.”

  “Her mother drives me crazy. I told her that if she needed money that you and I would help.”

  “I bet that went over big.”

  “She really bristled. ‘No need for that, Lila. I’m not destitute. I’m healthy and I’ve got a good job.’”

  “Sounds like her. I bet she wishes she had her RV back now. It’s bigger than her parents’ garage apartment.”

  “Right…then get this—she asked me—didn’t I think Candy had loved her—in her own way.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. She talked about how Candy took care of her.”

  “Took care of Nora?”

  “Yeah, get this. She asked me if I’d ever noticed how Candy always filled up her iced tea glass and was always asking if she needed anything.”

  “That’s so pathetic.”

  “Even now, she’s more worried that everybody will hate Candy and ostracize her.”

  “Ostracize her? I’d like to drown her in a sack.”

  “Well, if you do, don’t do it in their pool. That would definitely lower the resale value, and Nora needs every cent she can get.”

  Some Kind of Killing

  Miranda Kent

  I was thirteen when it happened. Thirteen is one of those ages where everything changes. Yesterday you were a kid, today you are a teenager, which is almost an adult. Which means some people get confused about the lines between kid and adult. Thirteen is where everything gets blurry and indistinct, like looking out a car window when it rains and someone’s driving really fast. And that’s when stuff goes wrong—really, really wrong.

  That’s what happened to me. Stuff went wrong. It wasn’t just because I turned thirteen. Stuff had been going wrong for me for a long time. If I thought about it, it had been going wrong as far back as I could remember.

  It’s hard growing up with crazy people. Sure, everyone uses the word crazy or insane all the time. Just like they say “I’m starving,” when they’re really just hungry. But not really starving. Not like people in Africa starving. So when people say, “She’s crazy,” or “That’s insane,” it’s just hyperbole—you know, exaggeration. Except I’m not exaggerating. I grew up with crazy people, and it was hard. Really hard. Like really crazy and really starving. And it’s why everything started to go so wrong so early.

  No one ever expects to see someone get killed, let alone kill somebody. That’s what I think, anyway. And no one expects to go to prison or have someone they know go to prison. That stuff happens on TV and in the movies, in books and in graphic novels, but not to real people. Except when you watch the news. It happens to people there. That’s why it’s news—because when it happens, it’s not normal, it’s crazy, it’s something that doesn’t happen to just anyone.

  We were those people. The people on the news. The story where they show the house and almost whisper the news story to the camera because it’s so awful and so tragic and none of the neighbors had any idea and someone said they kept to themselves.

  We were that story. I was that story.

  In the beginning there were seven of us. Two parents, two grandparents, three kids, some cats. Then some of us disappeared, some of us died.

  When you see those stories on the news, the stories about murder or other grisly things, everything usually looks pretty normal from the outside, where the cameras are. Every once in a while the house itself looks crazy—shutters falling off the hinges and cars jacked up with no tires and all kinds of junk and stuff piled up in the yard and scattered all around on the front porch with hungry, mean-looking dogs on chains jumping and barking and looking like they would tear you to shreds if they got loose. But most of the time what strikes you is how ordinary and just normal everything seems. Then the reporter explains how dozens of cats were found dead in the house after neighbors complained about a foul odor. Or that a man had been living with his mummified parents for years. Or that a kidnapped girl was found living chained in a basement. Or that a woman had smothered first one, then two, then five babies as she gave birth to them and buried them in her own backyard.

  I would watch those stories on the news without any emotion. What was I supposed to feel? Horror? Shame? Sadness? Disbelief? Maybe. But mostly I felt relief. That night’s news story was not our story. No one had looked beyond the empty porch, the yard in which no dogs were chained, where there was no barking to alert anyone to something being wrong on the other side of the front door with the big brass knocker on it. No one had come up the walkway lined with tidy little bushes that kept themselves. No foul odor emanated from the house. Everything looked normal.

  Even if it wasn’t.

  It’s hard to explain crazy to people who haven’t experienced it. It’s like it’s hard to explain pain. You can tell someone “That’s going to hurt,” but if they’ve never gotten hurt, they won’t know what you mean.

  Everything and everyone in my house was crazy. Everything that happened on the other side of the front door was nuts, insane, out of control, swirling in the kind of chaos and vortex that happens when you slip through a portal into another world. It was Tolkien and Rowling and Larsson all rolled into one, but without any of the good stuff—no comforting little owls or other creatures, no friendly professors
, no old people full of wisdom to make everything better.

  At first, that was as bad as it ever was: crazy. But then, when I turned thirteen, everything changed. And then crazy turned to something I didn’t know how to name.

  Did I say we had a dog? I know I mentioned the cats. Because the cats never left. Well, some did, because some died because of the crazy. But we had a dog. Not for long, though. It got hit by a car one afternoon in front of the house. It just ran out of the front yard and across the street and we lived on a hill and a car came up suddenly and it got hit.

  It was winter and there was snow everywhere and I sat on the sidewalk in the snow with the dog—I don’t feel like saying his name—in my school uniform and it took a long time before anyone took him to the animal hospital and he never came back.

  Memory is a vivid thing. Even if your memories are wrong, they are vivid. Like a bright color or a slap in the face. My memory of the dog dying was vivid. The day was gray and very cold. The snow was white in places and dirty in others because it had been around for a while and no one came to help for a long time and the horizon began to blur between the white-gray sky and the white-gray snow.

  Vivid.

  The other memories are like that, too. Vivid. Like a bright red pool of blood or a bright red slap mark on the side of a child’s face.

  I’d like to tell this story from the beginning—that’s always the best way to unravel a mystery, to put the pieces in their logical and chronological order. But I’m not sure when the beginning was, exactly. And I’m not certain that where I am now is the end. Maybe telling the bits and pieces of the story will make it clear—give it a beginning, middle, and especially, an end.

  *

  Blood is a strange thing. If you eat meat, you see it run onto your dinner plate all the time. But you never think: blood. And (unless you’re a vegetarian like I am) you never think: killing. You just eat what’s on the plate and think maybe, delicious or tasty or overcooked or underdone or needs salt or something like that. You don’t think about what the meat was before it was on your plate. You don’t think about the blood running out of the animal onto the floor of the abattoir and down into the French drains they have all over the meat-processing plants. You don’t think about the fact that yesterday the cow or the chicken or the pig was running around in a yard or in a pasture and now it’s on your plate. You just don’t think about the killing. Or why there’s blood on the plate. And that you’re eating it. But there’s some kind of killing every time you eat an animal. Something has to die.