This Will Be

by Jane Cooper Ford

  “Come with me…”

  She held Jamie’s hand and led her to the bed by the back window.

  Jamie sat down on the bed. Bridget stood over her. She leaned in and kissed her. Then whispered in her ear.

  “I want to do very bad things to you, Jamie Brennan.”

  She slid Jamie’s shorts down. Then stood up and unbuttoned her cutoffs. She looked into Jamie’s eyes and slowly slid the zipper down. Sliding her shorts over her hips and down her long, tan legs.

  She kept eye contact with Jamie.

  “This whole gay thing. I think I need some more practice. I don’t know if I know how to do it right,” she teased. “Will you help me?”

  Jamie smirked, taking in the scene, as she felt blood rush from her head to between her legs.

  Bridget Dwyer was sexy as hell - she was wrong for her. She was filled with secrets. She was trouble. But God, she was sexy.

  Jamie smiled. “I guess I can teach you a few things. Will you be a good student?”

  Bridget smirked and leaned over her. Jamie felt Bridget’s fingertips slide skillfully up the inside of her thighs.

  “I’ll do my best, Miss Brennan,” Bridget said.

  She kissed Jamie. Then she leaned her back on the bed and covered her body with her own. Jamie felt the warmth and weight of Bridget’s body on hers. And their mouths found each other in a hungry kiss.

  She heard Bridget whisper as her hands ran up her body.

  “Jamie Brennan, let’s make the whole fucking world go away.”

  34

  A few hours and a lot of sex later - darkness in the apartment except for a distant streetlight on University Place reflecting into the front of the living room. Now 2:30 in the morning,

  Lying in bed next to Bridget, Jamie stared at the ceiling. She could feel Bridget’s breathing as they lay next to each other.

  “What if…” Bridget whispered.

  Jamie rolled onto her side, facing Bridget, who was lying on her back staring at the ceiling.

  “What if what?” Jamie said.

  Bridget let a little smile curl on her lips. “…What if I do?”

  “Do….what?”

  Bridget turned her head to Jamie. “What if I do - love you,” Bridget whispered. “But I shouldn’t though, right?”

  Jamie scanned Bridget’s beautiful face. Her stormy blue eyes, the arch in her eyebrow, her sweet red lips.

  And for the first time since they met, she looked young. Too young. And broken in some way that Jamie knew was grief.

  And Jamie knew she couldn’t fill the space.

  “Bridget…”

  “I know…”

  “We said no feelings didn’t we?”

  Bridget lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

  “People say a lotta shite,” she half smiled.

  Bridget Dwyer could hear the sound of distant cars going by out the front window.

  “Jamie,” Bridget whispered, half drunk with sex and sleep.

  The rest of the sentence was going to be ‘I’m not who you think I am.’ But she couldn’t do it. Because as she lay here falling asleep, she wanted to be who Jamie thought she was. Good. Caring. Not someone who’d been so broken down with grief and anger she did something unforgivable.

  I’m not who you think I am. Just say it. Three people died because of me.

  She started the sentence as sleep washed over her.

  “Three people.”

  Jamie heard the words and had no idea what they meant. “Three people.” Probably some weird Irish expression.

  Jamie listened to the fan whir at the front of the apartment. She ran her fingertips along the curve of Bridget’s shoulder.

  She leaned over and brushed a kiss along Bridget’s cheek and then rolled over, facing the outer wall.

  Too hot to touch anyone and sleep.

  She stared at the framed orange and blue ‘Miro at Moma ‘73’ poster on her exposed brick wall up by the front door and reviewed where she was: Something more like happy. Something more like okay. Or normal. Or not tortured. Lying next to a beautiful someone who felt like love.

  Bridget Dwyer had done the impossible - she took a crowbar and opened up Jamie Brennan’s heart. And then filled it up with light.

  But Jamie closed her eyes and wished for sleep to take her away.

  Because she knew. That like a complete fucking idiot, she took this open heart that Bridget gave her, and she loved someone else with it.

  Jamie whispered the word as she fell asleep. “God, please. I don’t want to love her.”

  Not Bridget. Penny.

  35

  “Can I help ya, sonny?”

  78-year-old Dublin born landlady Iris Dunlop had seen a few things in her lifetime.

  The wife of an accountant to the Irish mob in the 1930’s. Iris had come home from buying groceries one morning in 1936, after dropping their five boys off at school and walked into the kitchen of their lower East Side tenement they bought with her husband Al’s newfound cash. Only to spot through the crack in the door to the dining room, her husband tied up in a chair and some Italian mobster with a bulky frame and an expensive suit pointing a gun at his head.

  “Where’s the money, ya fuckin’ Mick?” he snarled.

  Iris heard the sickening wet crunch of her husband being pistol-whipped.

  The guy spit out a word with every smash to the face. “Fuckin’ - Piece - of - Shit - Mick.”

  Then he barked, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya!”

  At which point, 28-year-old Iris Dunlop had heard enough.

  She wiped her palms on her dress, calmly put the milk in the ice box, walked over to the bread box, opened it up, pulled out the Smith and Wesson .358, spun the chamber around once and locked it into place, walked into the dining room through the swinging kitchen door, and as the hulking guy in the suit turned around and laughed in her face, she gripped the .358 with both hands and calmly shot him between the eyes.

  So Iris Dunlop had seen a few things in her lifetime.

  And she could spot a bad man when she saw one.

  And here was one. Standing in front of her on her front stoop on Orchard Street at 10 a.m. on this sunny morning - a twenty-something ginger Irish kid with a fake smile and a shifty stare. He was asking about one of her tenants. As it happened, her favorite one. As it happened, the girl she felt like was her own daughter. Her Bridget.

  What did this weasly bad man want with her Bridget Dwyer?

  He was smiling like a fool.

  “Can ya tell me, ma’am, where she works or when she might be back?” the string bean kid was asking.

  “Aye - what’d you say yer name was again?”

  “Kevin.”

  She looked at the shifty-eyed idjit. Wearing a jean jacket in summer. Standing on her stoop and faking a smile.

  She knew he was bad news. With his close-set pale blue eyes and the wisp of a ginger mustache that refused to totally take part in this stupid face.

  Iris watched the way his lips shook like the smile wouldn’t hold. Or like he was so filled with anger he couldn’t truly smile.

  She’d raised 7 boys. five of whom were cops now. But not choirboys when they were young. Iris knew a liar at twenty paces.

  She smiled. “What do ya want with Bridget, love?”

  As she scanned his face, it occurred to her he was one of two things, neither good. Violent ex-boyfriend. Or I.R.A.

  No one came looking for people who didn’t want to be found, except people who had no business finding them.

  He pushed out that lopsided grin again.

  “Her family sent me,” he said in his fresh off the boat Belfast accent. “I got some money they wanted me to give her.”

  “Ah, that’s grand isn’t it?” Iris said.

  She searched her mind for a time-consuming lie. So she could find Bridget before this ginger shite did.

  “Well,” Iris said, thinking on her feet, “She works at a restaurant out in Brooklyn, way at the end
there in Coney Island. She’s a waitress. I think it’s called The Roundabout?”

  That’d give him enough time to get the hell out of here and for her to find Bridget.

  “Thanks, Ma’am.”

  “My sincere pleasure, young man.”

  He headed down the front steps to the sidewalk. She watched him give her a little wave and begin to lope down Orchard Street.

  And with that, Iris knew two things.

  One, if that fuckin’ arsehole came back here, she might have to reach into the breadbox.

  And two, she had to find Bridget before he did.

  36

  Jamie stood at the counter in the bookstore eating her lunch, a turkey sandwich with mayo from Lou’s deli, and reading over the edited manuscript pages Penny’s office had sent back.

  She sighed.

  There were so many of Penny’s thoughtful, erudite red pen revision marks, the page looked like heiroglyphyics. It was almost hard to see the typed words.

  Jamie pushed the pages aside.

  Art. She had wanted to write about art because it was true for her. This didn’t feel true. And now she had Penny’s insightful notes alongside the margins reminding her how crap the writing was.

  She shoved the pages in her bag, then the whole bag under the counter.

  Lynette wasn’t working today, it was Sandra, who was thirty, had a blond bob and big round glasses, wore cowl neck sweaters in the summer and had a Ph.D in English Literature from Smith. She worked as a Teaching Assistant at NYU. And was a complete flake. But in the nicest way.

  Lynette called her The Oracle for her tendency to stare into middle distance behind the cash desk for hours at a time. But then pop to life with a non sequitur as if you and she were in mid-conversation.

  “Why don’t we recycle phone books?”

  “Sometimes I think people just want love.”

  “Waldbaum’s has broccoli on sale for twenty-nine cents.”

  As Jamie finished her lunch, Sandra was standing next to her at the counter, manning the cash. Finishing giving change to a cute guy buying a copy of Jaws.

  “Thank you, come again,” Sandra drawled in her heavy Long Island accent.

  He headed down the stairs and Sandra turned to Jamie. Jamie braced herself for a bon mot. But it was just a friendly suggestion.

  “Jamie, you want I should covuh fuh you while yoo take a break or somethin?”

  Jamie was filled with the desire to make something good come of the Penny notes. Or her stupid feelings for her. Or fucking something.

  “Thanks, Sandra. I would like that - I’m just gonna go work over here for a bit,” she said gesturing to the accounting desk with the Underwood typewriter.

  “Shoe-uh, ” Sandra said. Which Jamie was pretty certain was the word “Sure.”

  Jamie slid her body out from behind the counter. She made her way over to the accounting desk and plunked down in the green office chair with the worn seat and the not very functional wheels. She slipped a light blue invoice in the typewriter and rolled it into place.

  She stared at the blank page in front of her.

  And typed one word:

  Penny

  Time to get over this. What kind of an idiot would fall in love with a married woman? This kind, she thought.

  She stared at Penny’s name. The black typewritten letters indented on the pale blue invoice paper.

  She typed:

  Penny.

  100 reasons you’re not right for me:

  1-99 You’re married.

  100. See above.

  Jamie leaned back in the seat and stared at the words she just typed.

  She listened to the whir and clank of the airconditioner and the tinny sound of Silly Love Songs coming through the upstairs speaker.

  She spotted Sandra thoughtfully staring out the window.

  “Hey - Jamie. Do you think dogs and cats get along in heaven?”

  Jamie yanked the blue sheet out of the typewriter. She placed it on the desk next to her.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  Sandra screwed up her face. “But they don’t mate right?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”

  Sandra nodded, then stared out the window again.

  “Fair enough…”

  Jamie pulled out another invoice and slipped it in the typewriter, twirling it into place with that rrrrrip rrrrrrrep sound. Then two tabs with the lever and a TING sound and it was ready. She was ready. But no words would come.

  The upstairs speaker was finishing playing Silly Love Songs and she could hear the beginning strains of that song Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann starting up.

  Jamie stared at the page in front of her. The ache to write something beautiful, or true or meaningful filled her body but stopped at her fingertips.

  She glanced around the empty second floor of the bookstore. The big windows. The wide display tables, the stacks of books.

  Her eyes landed on Sandra behind the counter, listening to Blinded By The Light. She made a face.

  “Wrapped up like a douche?”

  Jamie turned back to the page in front of her. The desire to be able to write something beautiful again welled up in her like an insult. Her throat got tight.

  Words wouldn’t come. And she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Fuck…” she whispered. “Come ON…”

  And all at once, she knew what she had to write.

  She let her fingers press down on the keys. The words came without her thinking because she recalled them every minute of every day.

  And she wrote the only thing she could.

  The truth.

  “December 23, 1975.”

  “Tell me…”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Anything…”

  I laugh. “Anything like what?”

  She laughs too. “Anything like anything.”

  It’s nighttime. 11:30 pm. The snow was starting to fall on Christopher Street. I could hear the sound of Christmas carols being sung by a drag queen and a bunch of fabulous drunk gay guys in the Stonewall.

  “Okay,” I said. “About me? You want to know about me?”

  I felt the warmth of the eggnog laced with vodka I’d enjoyed two and a half of at my friend Barry’s going away/Christmas party.

  “Sure,” she said. She’s walking next to me. Looking at me shyly. I look at her. Her nose is red from the cold. Her eyes are this beautiful green. She’s wearing mittens and a wool coat with a hood. She has this beautiful wavy light brown hair that catches the light as we walk under the streetlights. Her eyes shine when she looks at me.

  “How about I tell you my name?” I laugh. “That’s a start.”

  “Don’t tell me that yet…” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah –

  “Can I know your name?” I say.

  “Do you need to know my name?”

  I laugh, “This is crazy.”

  I stop. She stops too. We’re standing on Christopher Street right before 7th Avenue South. It’s 11:30 at night and the streets are quiet, the occasional cab crunching by silently in the fresh snowfall. It’s two days before Christmas and the light from the streetlamps makes the snow look like sparkles falling from the sky.

  I look at her. My heart skips a beat. It’s the same feeling I had when I saw her at the party. She was across the room wearing a sweater and a jean jacket and a corduroy skirt and she was choosing records to put on, flipping through LPs. She had turned around right at the moment I was looking at her. She saw me. She smiled. I melted.

  I thought I wouldn’t be with a girl again. I thought I didn’t feel like that for anyone other than Sarah. And no one in the year since. But there she was. She was smiling and laughing flipping through Barry’s record collection. I remember she found a Partridge Family album and held it up like a trophy! She commanded Barry that she be able to put one on. Barry was 23 and gay so for him it was all disco or nothing.

  She put on that
Partridge Family album anyway and “I Think I Love You” rang out through the apartment. Some of the boys started singing along and laughing. There was mistletoe and eggnog and a couple of gym guys wearing reindeer antlers and a muscular guy with a soft voice who was wearing no shirt but a Santa hat. And there was the Partridge Family singing, thanks to this girl’s triumphant find. I remember laughing while I was pouring myself an eggnog. I kept looking back to her because she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. And she had those green eyes and this great smile. And she laughed and it lit up the room.

  I watched her all night. Finally, on my third eggnog, she came over and said.

  “I know you. I’ve seen you at the bookstore…”

  “Oh…cool,” is all I could say.

  She looked into my eyes and my stomach got all hot.

  And then I thought, “Why not? I’m drunk. She’s adorable and funny and cool. Why not?’"

  “This is crazy,” I said. “This is going to sound crazy… but would you like to go out sometime?”

  She smiled. “Yeah…” she said. “I would.”

  “I meant…on a date.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “Uh huh…” she smiled. Then she looked at her watch. “Look, I’ve gotta get home. My parents are visiting me. They went to a Broadway show. They don’t know I’m out.” She smiled. “And they don’t know I’m out.”

  “So you’re… gay?”

  “Yeah, but not out in the world or anything.”

  “I get it.”

  “Yeah…” She started putting her coat on.

  “Oh…” I said. “So you have to leave?”

  “You want to walk with me for a bit?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I do.”

  “Tell me”

  “What?”

  “Anything…”

  So we’re stopped on Christopher Street and she says, “What do you know about me other than my name?”

  And I looked at her and I was still feeling warm from the eggnogs. “I know you’re beautiful… and you’re funny…. and you lit up that room back there.”