Something to Believe

by Robbi McCoy

  Faith fell back onto the bed, pulling Lauren down on top of her. Looking into her eyes, she said, “I love you so much. Was there ever anybody as happy as we are?”

  Lauren shook her head, then accepted Faith’s kisses with enthusiasm.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I think you’re still romanticizing your subject,” Faith said, Emma’s manuscript in her lap.

  Emma sat in the visitor chair, her long legs clad in winter white linen, crossed at the knee, her lively eyes trained unwaveringly on her mentor. They were well into the fall semester, rapidly approaching Thanksgiving, so the rainy season had begun and both of their raincoats hung dripping by the open door.

  “Sometimes you write like an English major,” Faith continued, “painting a scene with an eye to artistic beauty. In other words, you’re a good writer, but this isn’t about creating an evocative scene. Anthropology is a science.”

  “I’m just trying to make it sound interesting,” Emma said, the side of her mouth curling up slightly.

  She’s a beautiful woman, Faith thought, then slid on her glasses to turn her attention back to the manuscript.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said. “As long as you don’t color the perspective or lose objectivity. Like this description of the Salish dance. It sounds like a first-person account, as if you’re writing fiction.”

  Emma smiled, though Faith was rebuking her. She tended to smile at everything Faith said these days, which made Faith more critical than she would have been otherwise.

  “It’s just a composite,” Emma explained. “To give you a sense of what it was like. I was trying to make it seem like an actual incident.”

  “You did. It’s just too—” Faith struggled to find the word. “Literary.”

  “I think I know what you mean. But your book is beautifully written. I’m just trying to do something similar.”

  “You have to keep your audience in mind. You’re not writing for the general public and that makes a huge difference. My book was written for the layperson. This is for your colleagues, or your would-be colleagues.”

  “I’ll try to objectify it a little more,” Emma said.

  “Yes, all right. As far as your research goes, you’re doing very well. You’ve made some interesting points. I like this idea that the potlatch smacked of socialism to the European governments of the early Americas, that the objections to it could have been partly based on that ideological disagreement. The concept of free enterprise has always been valued by Americans. The idea of a community getting together and redistributing their possessions is too much like Communism, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. In the American tradition, we’re all born equal, but that’s where equality ends. Ambition and personal success are highly valued. The acquisition of wealth is what we all strive for. To give it away, to give everyone an equal share, is against everything we stand for. The idea that the lazy asses and dolts should all have as much as the industrious entrepreneur is just plain anti-American.”

  “I think that could be one of your main points, that the potlatch, in its purest form, was antithetical to Western political values. That may have had more to do with banning it than the reasons given by the American and Canadian governments at the time. I’d like to see this idea come more to the forefront of your study. That gives it something fresh and relevant.”

  “All right. I’ll expand on that.” Emma made a note in the binder she had open in her lap.

  “But be careful you don’t overshadow the fact that there were serious abuses and some very corrupted versions of the potlatch being practiced. There were legitimate reasons for outlawing it, at least from the viewpoint of the people who were opposed to it.”

  Emma nodded. “Objectivity, right?”

  “Right. Which brings us to another passage I want to discuss with you.” Faith turned several pages of the manuscript. “This is the one where you’re describing a rowdy meeting that got out of hand, one of the incidents the missionaries often used as justification for the ban.”

  “Right,” Emma said wryly. “The Tlingit bash of 1890.”

  Faith looked over the top of her glasses at Emma’s grin, unable to suppress her own smile, then returned to her search. “Here it is. Several tribes got together, lots of revelry, drinking, etcetera, and somebody started shooting off a gun, wounding three people and killing a young woman of the host tribe, setting off an all-out feud.”

  “The Hatfields and McCoys all over again.”

  “Yes. But your description reads like fiction here too. And the part where you describe the young man stabbing himself in the heart is completely over the top.” Faith read Emma’s description aloud in a melodramatic style befitting the language. “‘As the knife blade entered the tender flesh of his chest, he sunk to his knees, then pulled the knife free. Blood gushed from the wound, falling on his beloved and mingling with her blood in the dirt. His body dropped, landing with his lips so close to hers they appeared to be sharing one last kiss.’”

  Faith looked up with what she hoped was not merely amusement, but disapproval as well.

  Emma shrugged. “It was a romantic gesture. It called for romantic language.”

  Faith slowly shook her head.

  “Okay, I’ll rewrite it. Don’t you think it’s the ultimate expression of love, though?” Emma leaned forward, her expression intense. “To kill yourself over your lover’s body?”

  “I think it’s the ultimate expression of idiocy.”

  Emma tilted her head, obviously amused. “The great poets didn’t think so, though, did they? I mean, look at Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I think you’re forgetting that Romeo and Juliet were teenagers.” Faith set Emma’s manuscript on her desk. “And therefore idiots.”

  Emma laughed. Her light eyes twinkled with delight. She adores everything I say, Faith thought with dismay.

  “You’re just not a romantic,” Emma teased.

  Unfortunately, she could no longer have a discussion with Emma without this flirtatious undercurrent emerging. Once Emma had confessed her “crush,” she apparently thought she had given herself permission to openly flirt. The fact that Faith sometimes secretly and guiltily enjoyed it made the situation even more difficult. And more pressing.

  Faith didn’t know what to do about Emma, but she knew something had to be done. Though she’d told Emma she had no feelings for her, she wondered if Emma could sense the truth. The last couple of months, she had felt herself growing more and more attracted to her. She had been looking forward to their weekly meetings with an exhilaration she recognized as perilous.

  Just this morning, perhaps subconsciously aware she was seeing Emma today, she’d awakened with audible cries of passion from a vivid sex dream which had left her embarrassed and worried. Lauren had reached out with comforting arms, asking if she’d had a nightmare. Yes, she’d lied. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. A dream in which Emma had made passionate love to her was a nightmare of sorts. Even now, gazing at Emma’s face, she recalled how her mouth had been so ripe and anxious in the dream.

  Faith shut her eyes tightly to block out the image. What did Emma know about any of this? What could she sense in subtle gestures and expressions? Did she know how distracting that extra open button on her blouse was? She probably did know. That was probably why it was open.

  “I need to get home,” Faith said. “I’m sure Lauren has prepared a fabulous dinner and I wouldn’t want to make her wait.”

  She stood. Emma followed her example.

  “I’ll see you next week, then,” Emma said. “If not sooner.”

  Standing close in the cramped office, Faith felt trapped. Emma moved closer and embraced her in a warm hug, her new way of saying goodbye, which Faith knew she should never have allowed. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, but Faith’s body responded anyway to the pressure of Emma’s breasts against hers and the smell of her hair, faintly herb-like. For just a second, her fingertips ached to take hold of this w
oman and possess her. But she stood immobile, her hands at her side, willing herself to resist.

  Emma stepped back and smiled, her lovely face full of affection. “Have a nice weekend,” she said.

  As she turned to retrieve her coat, Faith reached out and grabbed her arm. “Emma!” she said, hearing the desperation in her voice.

  In that instant, as Emma turned to her with a questioning look, Faith had no idea what she was about to do or say. That surprising uncertainty terrified her. She realized she was acting totally on impulse. Whatever that impulse had been, she immediately turned it to her purposes and said, “I can’t continue as your advisor.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Faith arrived home to find the kitchen full of tantalizing aromas. Something was in the oven and something was simmering in a saucepan on the stove, but Lauren was nowhere to be seen. Faith set the bouquet of autumn flowers she’d bought on the counter and took a vase from the cupboard. As she filled it with water, she saw Lauren in the back yard in her herb garden, a handful of green sprigs in her hand. Faith put the flowers in the vase just as Lauren came back inside.

  “Hi, honey,” Lauren said, leaning in for a quick kiss, clinging to her bunch of herbs.

  When she stepped back, she saw the flowers and looked surprised.

  “For my darling girl,” Faith announced.

  “Oh, how sweet! What’s the occasion?” Lauren put her herbs on the cutting board and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.

  “The occasion is, uh, let’s see...Friday.”

  Lauren smiled and kissed her again, more intensely this time. “Thank you. They’re very pretty. Why don’t you get changed. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “What are we having?”

  “Something I haven’t done before. It’s a chicken tagine with preserved lemons and artichoke hearts.”

  “A chicken what?”

  “It’s a Moroccan dish. Served over couscous. It’s supposed to be cooked in a special kind of pot called a tagine. But I’m using an ordinary casserole dish. Still, it should taste fairly authentic because of the preserved lemons. I made those myself. You remember?”

  “You mean when you stuffed those lemons in a jar of salt?”

  “Right. They’ve been magically transforming ever since and now they’re ready.” Lauren lifted her eyebrows enticingly.

  “Lauren, my God, you are astonishing! And all of this on a weeknight.”

  “No big deal. Just a chicken in the oven when it comes right down to it. It’s just the herbs and spices that make it special.”

  Faith went to the bedroom to change. Lauren really was a wonderful companion. I should bring her flowers more often, Faith thought. Not just when I’m feeling guilty for being attracted to another woman. As she pulled on a T-shirt, she recalled Emma’s shock when she’d told her she could no longer be her advisor. Of course she had demanded an explanation. But what could Faith say that wasn’t an admission of her own weakness? She couldn’t say she didn’t trust herself. She couldn’t admit her attraction. Anything like that would have been far too dangerous. It would have given Emma hope, encouragement even. So there was no question that Faith couldn’t say those things.

  “Your feelings about me are getting in the way,” Faith had told her. “Even though I’ve told you I can’t reciprocate, you’re still pursuing me. Working with you is uncomfortable.”

  “But you can’t just drop me. This is my last year. This is my degree we’re talking about.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma, but I’ve asked you to give this up. I told you it was a problem.”

  Emma had become agitated. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t stop myself from loving you. I can’t turn these feelings off.”

  “That’s why we can’t work together. I’m not happy about this, but I don’t see any other answer.”

  Then, with Emma still objecting, Faith had left, upset with herself and the situation, especially upset that she had laid all the blame on Emma. At the same time, she also felt an enormous sense of relief.

  It was all Faith could do to get off campus without bursting into tears. The last she saw of Emma, she had been sobbing. So Faith felt guilty both for what she’d done to Emma and what she’d felt for her.

  She sat on the edge of the bed to take off her shoes and then just sat there staring at the wall instead, feeling several conflicting emotions—remorse, sorrow, hope and gratitude. Most of all gratitude. Nothing like a threat to make you appreciate what you have, she thought. Then she sighed deeply, feeling like she had just escaped a catastrophe.

  She was roused out of her thoughts by the vibration of her cell phone. She didn’t answer, but after taking off her shoes and socks, she listened to the voice mail message from Emma.

  “Faith, I hope you’ll reconsider working with me. I really need your help. Please call me. Let’s talk. We can work this out. I can try harder. I promise it will be just business. Please give me another chance.”

  She erased the message, feeling sorry all over again for a situation she should have been able to avoid. It was too late for just business between them, but Emma couldn’t know that. Faith was relieved to think she didn’t know. She didn’t know that even being alone together in the same room was now too much of a temptation for Faith.

  Lauren appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Faith turned to face her, and just for a second wanted to tell her about Emma. But she stopped herself—she would have to admit she’d made a mistake, that she’d been less than vigilant. Lauren probably couldn’t imagine that. It would undermine her belief in the two of them, in the absolute rightness of their relationship. Faith wanted to protect that, Lauren’s resolute belief, like a parent maintaining the illusion of Santa Claus. How ironic that Lauren considered her the childlike one. Although she certainly found joy in children’s pleasures, it was Lauren who was much more likely to believe in fairy stories. At least this particular story, that for everyone in the world, there is just one person they are meant to be with, like the archetypal prince and princess.

  No, Faith thought, I can’t take that from her. It’s one of the sweetest things about her, that she truly believes we were meant for one another, preordained by God or the stars or some other magical power. People live by such beliefs, and always have, very happily and successfully.

  What Emma had said earlier, that Faith wasn’t a romantic, that was true. A romantic was someone who casts a softening lens over reality, but she was the most pragmatic of realists. She didn’t even care for the Romantic poets. She loved Lauren more than anything or anyone, but she knew their being together was merely a lucky happenstance. Chance was in charge of Faith’s world, not Fate.

  “Is something wrong?” Lauren asked, peering at her uneasily.

  Faith shook her head. “No, nothing. I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lauren’s younger brother Jim took one more spoonful of sweet potato casserole as the rest of the group sat contemplating the sin of gluttony. Jim, who was thirty-three, was still able to eat like a young man without gaining weight. Faith eyed his thin frame enviously.

  “This stuff is unbelievable,” he said, slapping a big spoonful on his plate. “Super job, as always, Sis. Cranberries and walnuts in the Brussels sprouts—damn, that was inspired. You manage to get all the traditional flavors, but like…so original, you know?”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Lauren said. “You have an adventurous palate. Of all my brothers, that’s why only you get invited.”

  “Oh! And I thought it was because you loved me best.”

  She laughed at his pouty face. “Well, that too!”

  Faith sat back in her chair, savoring the last sip of wine in her glass, thinking this was one of Lauren’s better Thanksgiving productions. The dining room was beautifully decked out in autumnal colors and the guests were a congenial bunch of friends plus just two relatives, Jim and Faith’s frail, willowy father, who looked like he was about to fall asleep
on his plate. Next to him, Faith’s friend and colleague Natalie put her fork down with a formal gesture of finality.

  “Well,” she said, returning to a subject they had just finished, “it sounds like your trip to China was totally successful, then.”

  “It was,” agreed Faith. “We could just keep going back and never exhaust it, though. It’s such a big country. So much history.”

  Dave, who sat across from Faith’s father, said, “Your trips are all so interesting because you don’t just do the touristy things. Hanging coffins? I mean, come on!”

  His partner Jason, who looked like he could be a twin brother, said, “It’s true. The rest of us visit the Great Wall.”

  “Oh, we did that too,” Faith said. “On our first trip. We try to do it all. Which is impossible, I know, no matter what country you’re talking about. There’s just so much fun to be had in this world, you know?”

  “Where to next?” Natalie asked.

  “We haven’t decided.” Faith glanced at Lauren. “Lots of choices. I’m leaning toward the Congo for next summer.”

  “I take it that wouldn’t be strictly a pleasure trip?” Natalie shot a knowing glance at Lauren.

  “Depends on your idea of pleasure,” Faith replied. “Fortunately, I love my work. And even more fortunately, Lauren does too.”

  “I do,” Lauren affirmed. “Though I am longing to go to Tuscany some day. Just for pleasure. What a novel concept, I know. A pleasure trip!”

  “And we shall go to Tuscany,” Faith assured her, as usual, then turned back to Natalie. “So, yes, the Congo would be a working trip. There’s this tribe there with an interesting tradition of smoking their dead.”

  “Smoking?” Dave asked. “You mean like mincing them up and putting them in a pipe?”

  Jason sputtered with distaste and wrinkled his handsome face at Dave. “I’m glad I’m done eating.”