by Bobbi Marolt
Helen remembered the constellation and leaned her cheek into Cory’s warm palm. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked with all of the weakness that the touch had provoked.
“I want you to take another look, Helen. Look deeper, beyond the surface. You’ll find where I am with you.”
Helen searched the eyes that she hadn’t resisted from day one, that she couldn’t resist tonight, and that she knew she wouldn’t resist thirty years from now. That she was sure of. She was also sure that Cory was the most important part of her life. Helen looked long into those eyes and soon caught her own reflection, the reflection of a woman in love. That’s what Helen found.
Cory pulled Helen slowly against her. Her arms wrapped tightly around her, and Helen melted into them. Helen kissed Cory’s neck, her ear. She nuzzled into her silky hair, wanting her, not wanting to share her.
She’s yours, Helen. Tell her.
“I love you,” Helen whispered into Cory’s ear.
Cory murmured a soft sound of joy and held Helen tighter. “I love you, too.” She brushed her thumb across Helen’s lips and replaced it with her mouth. Their kiss was gentle and finalized their words. Cory moved back slightly. “It’s early for us, but in the future we might decide to be together permanently. We can’t be married in New York, but if we could, I’d be sure to ask you.”
Helen liked the thought. She cocked her head. “Ask me now.”
“Maybe someday you’ll marry me? Would you be my bride?”
Having Cory to love and to feel loved by her presented an irresistible package for Helen. But there was one matter that, if they couldn’t agree upon it, could change the course of their relationship immediately.
“One of the first things you knew about me is that I want out of the closet,” she said and Cory nodded. “Living together is a statement without much danger. Boasting about it to an auditorium full of people, however, could prove hazardous to our careers and to our lives. If we’re together, I need you on stage with me or we won’t work.”
“I’m proud to love you. I’ll be with you that night.”
Helen took Cory’s hands into hers, pulled her close, and held tightly. At the very least, they could exchange rings with private vows. Maybe invite some friends and maybe not. They could legally take the other’s name. Helen Townsend-Chamberlain. She liked the hyphen.
“Yes, baby,” she said in answer to Cory’s proposal. “The odds are in your favor.” As an afterthought she joked, “Do I get a pre-engagement ring?”
“I had something a bit different in mind. Close your eyes.” Helen closed her eyes and felt Cory’s fingers place something around her neck, and then she turned her around. “Now open them.”
She’d been strategically danced to a mirror. In the reflection dangled a delicate gold chain around her neck with a stunning pear-shaped emerald. It rested gracefully below her throat as if cultured specifically to lie there.
Tears came to Helen’s eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said and ran her fingers along the chain. It was Helen’s bottle of Midori, the same chromatic essence that became Cory. She turned back to her. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Yes.” Cory gathered the stone into her hand. “It took a while to find the right stone.”
“No, I mean you.” Helen slipped a ring from her hand. An opal was surrounded by tiny pearls. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, Emily Townsend. Helen placed it on Cory’s left hand. “Now it’s complete.”
Cory twisted the ring back and forth. Fiery orange and fluorescent green came alive. She’d always admired the ring, had often toyed with it during their hours of snuggle-talk, and she knew the ring was an heirloom.
“Are you sure you want to let it out of the family?”
“You’re my family now, baby. You’re my future.”
Chapter Thirteen
If nothing came of Helen’s proposed cavalcade of stars, at least she’d made friends with Marty. They were almost inseparable when Cory was away. Shopping, dining, and even an occasional night of just two girls sitting around and shooting the bull over cocktails. Marty was fun, but brutal with her exercise, especially when she needed to burn some calories.
In Marty’s living room, Helen dropped to the floor, exhausted from their tyrannical workout. She panted and coughed. Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face. Sweat streamed down her back, between her breasts, down the back of her shorts. Vast wet spots soaked her underarms. She wiped her face with a towel, coughed again, and stared at the hardwood floor. Marty stretched onto her back and continued with cool-down exercises.
It took all her remaining energy for Helen to ask the big question. “Are we sweating or glistening?”
Marty laughed. “We smell like the Bronx Zoo. My guess is sweating.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled and watched Marty, who was obviously not sharing Helen’s near-death experience. “How can you do this day after day?”
“It’s my life, sweetheart.” She lifted both knees from the floor toward her chin, lowered them, and repeated the exercise several times. “Gotta do it to dance.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “What do writers do to keep their fingers in shape?” She made crawly spider motions with her hands.
“Hell, I still don’t know how to type.” Helen wiped her face again. “My eyes dart around that keyboard like I’m watching a miniature tennis match.”
“Really? Tiny Martinas and Gabriellas battling from A to L. Come on.” She grunted, pushed herself up, and yanked Helen to her feet. “Let’s get some fluids back into us.”
Helen plopped onto the kitchen chair and chugged her glass of orange-pineapple juice. She then dangled her arms, resigned to exhaustion. “Just shoot me now.” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I must have a death wish. I’ve been doing this for three weeks with you. This isn’t a friendship. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“You’ll live. Besides, we need you.” Marty took a Salem from the pack on the table, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “Do you mind?” she asked and blew out the smoke.
“No. What do you mean? Who needs me?”
She dragged again. “People listen when you talk. Do you realize that?”
“Well, yes, otherwise I wouldn’t have a column. What people are you referring to?”
“The gang. Us. That group of dummies you sliced your wrists for. We’re selling our souls for you, sweetheart. Hasn’t anyone called you?”
“No,” she said, dumbfounded from the sudden news.
“It figures. They think everybody can read their minds. Stardom does it.” Marty scratched vigorously at her scalp. “I need a shower.”
“I can see that. Now tell me what’s going on!”
Marty tapped ashes into the ashtray. “We figured you would take care of all that.”
Helen threw her arms into the air. “All of what? I didn’t even know—” The phone rang.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t believe this,” Helen said with disgust to the empty kitchen. Then she sighed. “I seem to spend a lot of time lately talking to empty rooms or condiments. Or myself.”
Marty returned, in a flurry of excitement. “I have to run out.” She shoved a towel and facecloth into Helen’s hand. “Grab a shower. I’ll be back soon.”
“Marty!”
“Later,” she said while trotting down the hallway. The front door slammed shut.
Helen found the bathroom, stripped, and studied her body in a mirrored wall. Sideways, definitely her favorite angle because she couldn’t see the width of her hips, which weren’t so bad except in her own mind. Her breasts were still firm and her thighs were holding up well.
A light birthmark, the shape of a quarter rest, near the top of her right thigh reminded her that Cory would return from Atlanta tomorrow. She touched the mark and smiled. Cory often rested there. Helen missed her with her constant traveling, but if the symphony decided to accept her as maestro, she would settle in or around Boston and then they would dea
l with how to be together. At least she wouldn’t be gallivanting all over the world.
During her shower, Helen remembered one of the many discussions they’d had concerning Cory’s relocation.
One particular conversation had taken place in the music room, when Helen had quietly opened the door and carried a tray inside. Cory, who was deep into practice, had been at the piano for two hours and Helen had decided it was time to break.
Cory’s nose suddenly twitched. She raised her head to the aroma of fresh-baked bread. She continued playing but the delicious smell grew stronger, too strong to blow off as the neighbor’s air escaping into her apartment. Helen knew what Cory was thinking: Had her Helen, her non-cooking, potato-nuking Helen, actually broken out the flour and eggs? Helen carried the lip-smacking, mouthwatering snack closer. Cory stopped playing, turned, and her eyes lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza.
“Yes!” She squealed when she saw a tray that bore freshly baked bread tucked snugly into a wicker basket. Fresh orange slices nestled with kiwi and buttery morsels of Swiss and Cheddar cheese.
Helen remained straight-faced. “Yoko dropped this off,” she said, and Cory smiled. “She said to fatten you up.” Helen placed the tray on the back of the grand piano and Cory followed.
“Did Yoko send any messages?” Cory asked nonchalantly and then tore into the steamy loaf.
“Yes.” Helen thought. “Something about a walrus and an egg man.” She watched Cory struggle to control a laugh. “And then she pointed to the kiwi and said ‘Give these a chance.’ What do you suppose it means?”
Cory sighed, nodded, and fed Helen a creamy chunk of Swiss cheese. “The first part is top secret, but the second part”—she swept her eyes over Helen’s face—“means you have flour all over your pretty little cheeks.”
Helen looked at her reflection on the piano and saw nearly enough flour to make a small pretzel. “Before Yoko left she yanked a huge powder-puff out of her sleeve and slammed it into my face.” She brushed off the flour with a napkin. “It was the strangest thing. She likes slapstick, is my guess.”
Cory was beside herself with laughter. She raised her finger to the air in emphasis. “Ah, yes. That’s Yoko’s ‘You gotta move to Boston’ powder-puff slamming.”
“You’ll have to relocate,” Helen said.
Cory munched an orange slice. “I wouldn’t mind supporting you if you wanted to get back to your book.”
“I love you, but I’m not so sure I want to move to Boston. My life is here.”
“You could change that.”
“So could you. Stay in New York.”
And so it would go each time.
Rejuvenated by a cool shower and donning fresh clothes, Helen wrapped a towel around her hair. In her search for Marty, she checked the living room and kitchen, but Marty was nowhere in sight. Back down the hallway, she headed toward an open door and peeked into a bedroom.
“Marty?” No answer.
A throat cleared in the dead air and Helen turned toward the muffled sound. Another sound, lighter and less masculine followed. A woman’s giggle, a muffled “ouch” and a “shh” led her to another door, and the distinct clamoring inside stopped Helen. She listened, curious.
“Face the door,” someone whispered. “She’ll—” Ping! Many giggles then, when someone hit what sounded like a very high piano key. “Shh!” the same voice said. “You’re worse than children.”
“I don’t know the words,” someone whispered desperately.
“What? Everybody knows—” The voice was cut off by a chorus of “Shh!”
Helen chuckled. Somewhere in that disorganized mess, Marty could probably be found. She turned the door handle.
“Marty?”
“Yeah, come on in, Helen.”
“The door’s locked.”
More laughter echoed from inside.
“Shit.” Footsteps pounded on the hardwood floor, the door swung open, and Marty grabbed Helen’s hand and pulled her inside. “Ta da! Hit it, Chamberlain.”
Helen was surprised not only to see Cory home a day early but also to find almost everybody from the party there, as well as some who hadn’t been there, like Jackie Payne, a sleek, soft-butch makeup artist. Blair, she noticed, was absent, and she supposed that was just as well.
They sang together, “When You Wish Upon A Star.” Some sounded good, some off-key, and some struggled through their laughter. Cory removed one hand from the piano keys long enough to blow her a kiss. Helen listened while they sang, and she half expected to see Jiminy Cricket dance across the room in his tuxedo.
Helen had made her wish to the stars and it seemed that they would make it come true. Not only her wish, it was obviously their own secret longing, to honor themselves and those who were their equal. She couldn’t believe that they’d agreed, and she wanted to hug each of them. The makings of a top-notch show were right there in front of her, and the thought of it gave her goose bumps.
“This is wonderful. We’re really gonna do it.” Helen punched the air in front of her. “Yeah!”
“It’s your ball game, Helen. We give you the talent and you give us the ways and means,” Mark said.
Her ball game. Suddenly she was launched into the role of producer. That meant getting their acts together, locating a hall or theater, setting a show date, producing programs, and probably a million other things she knew absolutely nothing about. She’d probably rely on Marty for insider advice, but she couldn’t wait to get started.
Cory left the piano and joined Helen.
“How did you keep this from me?” Helen asked after a long kiss from Cory and wolf whistles from the group.
“I—” She stopped abruptly as she looked toward the doorway.
Marty raised her eyebrows and a chorus of groans came from the others. Helen turned and looked behind her.
Blair leaned against the wall outside the door. She was squeezed into black spandex accessorized with a silver belt buckle, three-inch heels, and dark glasses. Her arms were folded in front of her. She looked sexy, something Helen would never admit to thinking, but Blair’s cold demeanor gave true meaning to the term icy-hot.
“I couldn’t resist crashing your little get-together.” Her voice was cool and steady.
“You’re welcome here any time,” Marty said, walking to the door. “I didn’t think you’d be interested—”
“Well, I am.” She pushed away from the wall and walked into the room. “I have something to say about this Townsend Shock Appeal.” She looked toward Cory. “It’s my turn to speak.” She paused for effect.
“Helen gets paid, rather hefty I presume, to stir up controversy.” She walked slowly around Helen. “Like us, she’s just another closeted queer.” Cory stepped up to Blair. Blair stopped and turned quickly to Helen. “Does that word offend you?”
“Not in this group,” Helen said.
Blair looked at Cory and smiled triumphantly. “Then I’ll continue. This is one story Helen can’t do alone, unlike Moses, who parted an entire sea.”
“With Divine intervention,” Jenny said. “And he was leading his people.”
Blair laughed. “They packed up their worldly goods and followed, in search of the Promised Land. Their Bill of Rights, so to speak.”
“What’s your point, Blair?” Stacey asked.
“My point is that all of you, except for you, Stacey, could possibly throw away your livelihoods for this woman’s personal need. There won’t be Divine intervention and there’s no promise at the end. There’s only hope where hope isn’t enough.” She looked at Helen. “But it can’t be left to lie and rot, can it, Helen? You need to wear that robe and carry that staff.”
“I’m not Moses,” Helen said. “Look. I don’t—”
“No, you aren’t a prophet and these people are mad to follow you. Your proposed show is the most absurd and foolish thing I’ve ever heard of and if you think I’d throw away everything I’ve earned, for the sake of freedom, freedom that I
shouldn’t have to fight for to begin with, then you’re…” Blair paused and smiled. She removed her sunglasses and returned Helen’s wink from the party “…absolutely correct.”
The group around the piano let out their breath together and Cory did a double take on Blair.
Helen blinked, stunned by the words. “What?”
Blair responded with less bravura. “All of them can’t be wrong, Helen. I’ve thought about this for weeks, and the worst that can happen is I won’t work in Hollywood for a while. I could use a break, anyway.”
“Crazy woman,” Jay whispered.
“Am I in?” Blair asked. “I’d really like to do this show with you and I promise not to ask for top billing.”
Helen blinked again and looked around the room. Except for Jay, all heads nodded approval. “You’re in,” she said quietly and began to laugh. “She’s in.”
“Oh, goody,” Jay grumbled.
Chapter Fourteen
Helen sat in the stream of late morning sunlight. Her orange juice and rye toast remained untouched. Her hair was a tangled mess, Medusa-like. Helen Townsend just wasn’t glamorous in the mornings, and she didn’t care.
Her definition of breakfast couldn’t be found in any dictionary. Breakfast meant: “Leave me alone while I have coffee and toast. Don’t expect me to talk until I’m showered. Confine your cereal to the bowl and please clean up the mess. I am not your mother or your nanny. I am not human. I’m a lump. Treat me as such.”
Cory, on the other hand, sat wide-awake, her nose buried in the pages of the newspaper, oblivious to the sounds of her breakfast cereal. Snap-crackle-pop. Snap-crackle-pop. Snap-crackle-pop. Every morning Cory was home, Helen heard it. Snap-crackle-pop. The continuous battering of sound was grating.
“Says here that Webber’s fired Dunaway from Sunset Boulevard,” Cory said of the Broadway musical. She dunked her spoon into the bowl, and a heap of cereal fell over the side. Snap-crackle-pop. “Probably blown out of proportion by the press.” The loaded spoon disappeared past Cory’s lips and emerged again, empty.