Rafferty Street

by Lee Lynch

  “The staff out at the Farm is doing a bang-up job.” He displayed a sheet of paper. “Worker productivity is at an all-time high and contributing one third to the Farm’s budget. My understanding is that this is a phenomenal achievement.”

  “All right!” Annie whispered.

  A red-faced man with the beefy build of an ex-football player who’d let himself go, rose next. “Is that all you care about? Number crunching? I’m Leon Simski. You’ve got a bad situation down at the Farm. So bad, I may pull my kid out. And you know why. I want to see some action taken to get the wrong element out of there.”

  Annie was at the edge of her seat. She’d stripped off her jacket partly because she was sweating so hard, partly in an effort to look more respectable to Jo, though Jo hadn’t looked at her since Annie had first entered the room. Now she wanted to respond to Simski’s unspecified accusations, but no words came to her except a shouted “NO!”

  Everyone in the room turned toward her. She was half standing, half-sitting, poised to tell her side of the story.

  Behind her, a chair scraped. Hope Valerie, unfailingly silent in a group, said clearly, in a shaking voice, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister. I was there. I saw what happened at the ball field and you have it all wrong.” Briefly, plainly, with a shaky voice, she gave the Board the truth, unflinching, though every eye in the front row seemed to be scrutinizing her with disdain. Hope sat abruptly. There was silence in the room. Annie, still on the edge of her seat, knew that if Hope had found the guts to stick up for her, it was time to end her own silence, but again, just as she began to rise, someone else spoke.

  “Are you going to take her word against that of my minister’s wife?” asked the outraged matron.

  Annie felt two hands on her shoulders, pressing her back into her seat. “Don’t be a jerk,” Dusty whispered. “We’re here to do the talking.” Aloud, Dusty introduced herself and asked, “Is there some reason we should believe Paula Norwood over Hope Valerie? The Valeries have been in this Valley for generations. They’ve been ministers and bankers and teachers. Hope holds a responsible position with the transit company and volunteers her time to help the whole community.” She paused. “I know you’re not referring to her race.”

  “No!” sputtered the woman. “Of course not!”

  “If I may have the floor just a moment longer. I can confirm what Hope said. Nothing happened at the ball game that could harm anyone. As team manager, I may have used poor judgement in allowing an excitable, troubled young woman to have the batgirl position, but I honestly thought it would help her adjust to some difficult changes in her life—and she was so proud.”

  A male board member said, “That’s very moving, but I think we’ve gone beyond one incident here. I emphatically agree, Ms. Reilly, that you displayed misguided pity rather than sensible judgement in your decision. Surely you knew the environment into which you were placing this young woman.”

  Annie jumped up then. “Yes, sir. Sunshine, competitiveness, fun, physical exercise, teamwork and a sense of accomplishment. If that’s suspect, then I think the city ought to take these Norman Rockwell posters off the walls.” There were two of them, one actually depicting a sandlot baseball game with smiling players and a fluttering American flag.

  “Those,” said Leon Simski, “are normal people. My kid could play with those clean-cut fellas any time and I’d be rooting in the stands.”

  “Like,” cried America Rodriguez, “the clean-cut suburban jokers who got caught having sex with a developmentally disabled girl looking for love and acceptance?”

  That story had been in the papers for weeks.

  “What’s the difference?” a board member asked.

  The back row burst out. “Oh come on!”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  Annie noticed that Judy looked uncomfortable. What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she stop this?

  “I move,” said the soldier, “that the board review personnel policies and add specific criteria to guard against this happening again.”

  The front row applauded. Annie felt sick.

  Plant said, “That’s a big undertaking. We’d have to get some legal help to understand employment discrimination laws. They’ve added that sexual orientation clause, you know.”

  “Damn government,” said a lean man in a fatigue jacket. “Nosing in where they don’t belong. Just fire the son-of-a-b and get this over with.”

  Finally, Judy spoke. Her voice was strong, but speech seemed to be an effort. “I’m not ready to fire anyone, Mr. Knight. We’ve heard contradictory stories. I’ve interviewed both the staff member and the worker. I can see no wrongdoing on the part of either. The worker has a history of these attachments as well as a pattern of inappropriate though harmless behaviors.”

  “Harmless!?”

  “No harm was done here except a good employee is on administrative leave for the six weeks we agreed on to investigate the incident, which unfortunately fell at a difficult time for me and consequently had to be extended. You will have to come up with some more compelling justification for termination or I fully intend to reinstate the employee.”

  “We’ll justify it all right,” the matron said with a self-righteous bitterness. “The United Way and your other benefactors will be hearing from a lot of concerned citizens. And if they won’t listen, the Board of Selectmen knows who keeps them in office. They’ll rewrite the licensing codes to require screening for sexual preference in day care centers, schools, camps and disability facilities—or hear from the voters.”

  Jake had managed to be quiet all this time, but now he rose, as thin and pale as Judy, and let them have it. “Excuse me,” he said. “This is all very civil, but there are so many innuendos floating around I’m beginning to think I’m at a séance. I want to say a few words aloud. Brace yourselves. Gay. Reactionary. Justice. Prejudice, discrimination and bigotry. Hysteria. Manipulation. Compassion. Truth. Political agendas. And that’s the worst one, because I think all of you up front and some of you on the board are trying to use this incident to manipulate the voters and the funding sources. You throw your puritanical tantrums and get your way or else you punish the Farm and you punish our city government. This is not the American way, folks. And you’re not getting away with it. And thank you, Ms. Wald, for standing up to these storm troopers!”

  The back rows whistled, stomped and cheered Jake, who sat daintily back down with a stern proud gaze fastened on the front row.

  “ENOUGH!” shouted Plant, banging the gavel.

  Judy stood again. “That was very articulate, sir, and I appreciate all of your comments. I think we have to guard against name-calling and escalation. Let’s remember it’s the workers at the Farm who’ve brought us all together, and it’s a workable solution for them that we’re seeking.”

  The meeting ended with the board agreeing to review the personnel policies. Judy would keep a temporary worker in Annie’s job, but would reinstate Annie unless she was thoroughly convinced that there had been willful misconduct.

  No deadline was set, but by the time Annie reached the front of the meeting room to ask when she could expect to hear, Judy had vanished.

  Chapter Seven

  The little pig was in its enclosure out back. Jo called down that the door was unlocked.

  A vanilla-scented candle burned, as usual, on the highly polished coffee table. The precisely placed floor lamps cast a homey light. On the wall was a new piece of art, a cloyingly adorable watercolor of Rex. Ah-ha, she reassured herself, that’s the connection with Verne.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea? I just put the water on,” Jo said with her meltaway smile, cutting short their hug.

  Jo had stopped her outside City Hall and invited her over. Annie had been hoping to process the meeting at the diner with her supporters, but Jo was insistent.

  Now Annie surprised herself. “No. No tea and sympathy. I want to know when I get
to stop being afraid a mob will come for me.”

  Jo didn’t hesitate. She patted a space beside her on the couch. “This must feel like it’s taking forever, Annie, or like I’m not trying, but it’s really complex. You saw tonight that I can’t just walk up to board members to demand anything.” She moved closer and reached for Annie’s hands. “I called after we talked this afternoon. Judy’s been really sick. You got lost in the shuffle.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to go down there and help her find me—and the law that protects my job.”

  Jo sighed as if Annie were a sulky and frustrating child. “She knows the law, Annie. She agrees with the law. Try to understand the position she’s in.”

  “I know, I know, Lorelei and Errol and the rest need protection. They do. I’m not arguing with that. But if I didn’t know it before, I do now—I need protection too.”

  Jo withdrew her hands. “Please try to be fair. That’s not as obvious to straight people.”

  “I lose my job and you want me to be fair. Whose side are you on, Jo?”

  “Come in the kitchen. I can’t take that kettle whistling any longer.”

  Annie became aware of its insistent screech.

  Jo, complaining about the Boards’ capitulation to the front row, poured water into a creamy pink teapot with a foreshortened spout and a curlicue handle.

  “A piggy-pot?” She had to laugh.

  Jo joined in. “Poor Annie. How are you doing with all this? I’d be absolutely terrified my name would be released to the whole world.”

  “It’s like I told you the other night. It’s been a long time since I had a dream. I thought I could get a degree, teach Special Ed. There’s got to be more to life than earning enough money to have a place to sleep so I can earn enough money to have a place to sleep—you know?”

  Jo smiled. “You’re a sixties kid, still hanging on to your ideals. Dreaming over there on your cobblestoned street.”

  “Bingo. I want my life to matter! Maybe my real job isn’t to make a difference to the workers at the Farm or to teach. Maybe I’m supposed to make a difference for gay people.”

  “I’m not willing to dip you in chocolate and throw you to the radical right. They’re the enemy—not Judy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Who fired me?”

  “Annie, this is definitely confidential information, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “The Norwoods’ church is small, but it’s part of the biggest denomination in town.”

  “Point being?”

  “The church has a lot of money. When the Farm had a balloon payment on its mortgage a few years ago—”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “They own the Farm.”

  “No, but they do hold part of the mortgage.”

  “Aren’t there public funds involved? What about separation of church and state?”

  “You’d have to ask the attorneys.”

  “Oh, man. Now what?”

  “I know what I’d do.”

  “I know what you’d do too,” Annie scoffed. “The closet’s a temptation, but I’d suffocate.”

  “No. I’d go back to New York. What better solution than hiding out with eight million people?”

  “Hey! We could get an apartment together!” The look on Jo’s face told her that wasn’t in her plans. “Not a good idea,” she said, backing off. “Besides, cabbies have the highest death rate of any occupation. At least dodging Mrs. Kurt isn’t likely to be fatal.”

  “I didn’t realize driving was so dangerous. Of course you have to stay here,” Jo said, looking concerned. “I’d never thought of that.”

  She wondered just how much thought Jo had given to the possibility that Annie might flee the Valley.

  As if to distract Annie from her suspicions, Jo smoothed her skirt over her legs and asked, “Is Lorelei Simski still batgirl for the diner team?”

  “Are you kidding? Lorelei sneaks over to Dusty and Elly’s place late at night. She’s guilt-ridden about not being there for the team. Her mom drives her to and from the Farm, and keeps her practically imprisoned the rest of the time. What is wrong with those people? I enjoyed Lorelei, but does her family really think we recruit kids or the mentally retarded?”

  Jo poured more tea from the pig pot into Annie’s mug. Annie stared at it.

  “The Simskis sincerely think they’re doing what’s best for Lorelei, Annie. They think being gay is as bad as a cancer diagnosis and that they have to protect her from people like you.”

  Her anger, as if waiting for a spark, flared again. She rudely pushed the teacup away. “Like me? You mean like us, don’t you?”

  Jo hesitated. “Of course. It’s just... Mrs. Norwood took Lorelei’s parents down to look at the diner team and, well, everyone looks so masculine on the softball field.”

  “Right. Like femme-of-the-century Paris Collins?”

  “No, but Mr. Simski has a little backhoe company and Paris is a known environmentalist—”

  “So the only one who looks like their take on a woman is a subversive.” As she spoke, she tried to convince herself that Jo was on her side.

  Jo sounded annoyed. “Talking to the Simskis is like talking to something more solid than a brick wall, Annie. They were just so freaked to have had a disabled kid in the first place, then to learn their adopted kid is a lesbian who obviously gave it to their daughter...” She smiled weakly. “It’s probably shaken their pro-life faith.”

  “The crosses they must bear,” Annie said. The last of her tea tasted bitter.

  “I’d miss you, Annie, but I certainly wouldn’t blame you for leaving a town filled with Simskis.”

  She forced her question past a dry lump in her throat, trying to ignore Jo’s body, her own desire. “Is that what you want, Jo, for me and my problem and my factory job to disappear? Would that be better for you?”

  “Of course not,” Jo said hastily as she dropped their tea bags into the trash.

  The telephone rang. Jo looked at it, seemed to hesitate, then answered.

  “Hello,” said Jo, her tone so intimate Annie went to the living room window and looked across at the reservoir to give her privacy. Under the illumination of a street lamp, a Mallard waddled onto a narrow strip of bank and disappeared under some bushes. The drizzle was like a fine fog. Annie fingered her hat, trying not to hear Jo’s low words, but she knew that flirtatious tone. She’d tell Annie if she were seeing someone else, wouldn’t she? The old MG. Tell me it’s not Verne, she thought. She couldn’t take any more humiliation.

  Rex pawed insistently at the downstairs back door. At a particularly loud snort, Jo cut off her conversation.

  “Sorry,” Jo called to Annie as she hung up the phone. “It’s getting late. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, go ahead, I barged in on you.”

  “I’m feeling good about working this out, Annie. I still think you’re wise to...” She was obviously choosing her words carefully. “...keep a low profile. This isn’t a good place, or time, to make waves.”

  Angry again, she declared, “One more week, Jo, and if Judy hasn’t talked to one of us, I’m going to track her down. She can fire me or put me back to work, but I want to stop this now. For my sake, but also before she gives the right wingers a taste for power—the power to win elections by stirring up homophobia—like their cohorts out in Oregon and Colorado have. It wouldn’t take much to repeal everything you’ve gained here.”

  Jo bit her bottom lip. A piece of Annie wanted to stop her from hurting it. “I don’t know, Annie. You’d be taking on the whole Valley.”

  “Then I’ll take on the whole fucking Valley. Meanwhile, I’m history. Thanks for playing mediator. I really hope it works.”

  She pulled her team cap on and paused at the door. Should she at least kiss Jo’s cheek? Acknowledge their intimacy at all? She found that she didn’t want to. The flaring anger had replaced desire. When she looked at Jo’s smile,
no one was home but the bank manager. She tipped her hat.

  The gesture felt like a reminder of all they hadn’t promised each other.

  Chapter Eight

  The next night, while the Sentinel’s letters-to-the editors raged about gays ruining the moral fiber of America, Annie had to get out of the house.

  The Sweatshop was supposed to be an after hours club, but when the diner was mobbed, or the gay crowd wanted to dance or play pool without drinking, everyone drifted early the few blocks down toward the river to another cobblestoned street, where the trolley once took dreamers to the old promenade along Morton River. She imagined girls with white parasols batting their eyelashes at—did butches wear striped blazers and straw boaters back then? All carefully averting their eyes from the factories where they forged brass all week, faces to the river where friends waved from rented rowboats.

  She was at the jukebox when she heard, “Sugar!”

  “Chantal Zak!” she said, adding, to her own surprise, “It’s really great to see you!” The payroll clerk from Medipak, with her swept-back frosted hair and constant smile, reached with a delicate hand to guide her to the empty chair beside her, then introduced her to two friends.

  “Come sit up close. I never get to feast my eyes on you enough out at Club Med. I’m going to start messing up your paychecks so you’ll come visit me.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m trying to avoid the boss’s wife, remember?”

  She’d forgotten the sultriness of Chantal’s voice and noted her over-sized deep gold sweater, black slacks and the splash of black scarf knotted at her throat. “You look really nice,” she said, feeling something like a drumming begin deep in her gut. She confessed, “I seem to have a thing for French women.”

  “Just a quarter French. The rest of me is Polish as the pope.”

  Chantal’s friends got up to dance.

  “Don’t they look good together?” asked Chantal. “I just introduced them.”

  The two dancers took a minute to find their rhythm. “Yeah,” she agreed, not bothering to hide the pining from her tone.