by Bobbi Marolt
Helen followed when Cory walked into the music room and sat on the piano bench. She easily pushed back the keys cover and played a delicate minuet.
“I hide in my sleep and you hide in your music. What are you feeling?”
“I’m afraid of losing the position if I do the show. I don’t want to get another letter saying they’d made a mistake.” Cory stopped the musical piece and rested her hands on her lap. Helen watched tears fall from her eyes. “Telling you isn’t easy.”
“I need you on stage with me,” Helen said quietly.
“If we can’t be together, I’ll have to live with that. I love you, but—”
“Cory, there’s no ‘but’ in ‘I love you.’”
“I care too much what people—”
“Baby, we belong together.”
“I can’t do your show, Helen.”
Helen’s heart sank after hearing no protestations or no “screw the world, we should be together.” No emotion. Helen grabbed Cory’s hand.
“You can’t mean this.”
Cory sat quietly and touched the piano keys. Helen grabbed the cover, slammed it down, and Cory jerked her hands away in time. The echo was loud in the room, as loud as the look of fear that drenched Cory’s face.
“Damn you, Cory Chamberlain,” Helen shouted. “Damn you and fuck your piano.” She pounded her fist on top of the grand instrument and the strings vibrated their angry response. “I trusted you would be with me that night.”
“I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
“You’re sorry? You were wrong when you said you couldn’t write yourself out of a bubble. You’ve managed to write yourself out of this one quite nicely.” She pounded the piano again.
“We’re giving each other room.”
“I don’t want room from you, baby.”
“Then don’t do the show.”
“I have to. I’m tired of the lies.”
“Can’t we compromise? Why do they have to know about me?”
Helen laughed. “Let’s just rewrite lesbian history. We’ll start with Stein and forget to mention Toklas.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Helen.”
“And you’re being a shit. Fine. Have your damn music.” Helen spun her chair around and started for the doors, but stopped halfway. She cried. “How can you do this?”
“Don’t leave.” Cory came up behind her. “You said the position in Boston is my dream. That’s true, but you’re the woman for me and I don’t want us to part over this. We need to talk and come up with a solution.”
“I’ve compromised my entire life.” Helen turned her chair to face Cory. “And now I can’t trust you.”
*
With Stacey’s assistance, Helen returned to her own apartment. She’d felt her life had seeped out of her, that she’d left it at the Dakota. Cory had become her life and there was nothing wrong with that as long as they hadn’t lost themselves in the other. Neither of them did, and that’s what separated them.
“Call me when you get home,” Helen’s answering machine played back. Cory’s voice was tired.
Helen didn’t call. She wanted to be alone, to whine, to cry, to make some sense out of her last few hours and decide what she should do to make things right. An hour later, the phone rang.
“Hello,” Helen said.
“This isn’t supposed to happen, Helen. You’re overreacting.”
“Then be with me. Keep your promise.”
“I can’t take the risk.”
“But you’re willing to risk me?”
“I’m willing to compromise. You come out, I stay in.”
“We’ve had this discussion. I won’t hide you. I refuse to live that way. What aren’t you hearing?”
“That you love me enough to comp—”
“You need a larger vocabulary.” Helen was quiet. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie. I’m scared.”
“Then stay in your closet. Go out and play when you can. The world will be proud of you. Good-bye.”
Helen hung up, once more betrayed by love. Chasing turned to caring turned to loving turned to leaving.
“Why did I even bother?”
She wheeled herself to the window, opened it, and took a deep breath. She looked to the snow-covered concrete below. She’d survived a plane crash. Would it hurt to jump? What was a little more pain? Who would be there to care? Stacey would. Marty would. Sam. Cory would be happily off to Boston, chased by a heifer. No. She wouldn’t give either one the satisfaction.
“‘Keep passing the open windows,’” she quoted, and closed the window. “Thank you, John Irving.”
She motored to the telephone, punched in Carolyn Ingram’s number, and waited.
“Carolyn, it’s Helen Townsend. I know it’s late—”
“It’s okay. Talk to me.”
She laughed lightly. “I’ve been flirting with an open window.”
“What’s happened?”
“Cory. We fought…I said fuck your piano…we broke up,” Helen yelled. “Damn her! She promised me!”
“Promised what?”
“To appear in the show.”
“She’s changed her mind? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. She’s afraid she’ll look bad.”
“It sounds to me like she’s protecting her future. You can’t force her, Helen. That’s emotional blackmail.”
Helen had no response.
“How are you feeling?” Carolyn asked.
“What the hell kind of question is that? I’m angry and hurt. I’m pissed off. Those are my emotions. Cory’s my life and she didn’t seem to care about how she’s suddenly changed our lives. I can’t compromise.”
“But she did care. She wanted to talk and you blew her off. Maybe you should think about your reaction to her.”
Carolyn listened for several minutes while Helen spit and sputtered, cried, and stomped her one good leg.
“I just wanted to jump. There’s always too much pain and upset in love and life.”
“Windows are for clarity, not for jumping. You’re a survivor in many ways. I want you to rest tonight. Take a Seconal if you have to.”
“Sure. Zombie myself out. The World According to Helen.”
“Helen,” Carolyn said firmly, “take something to help you relax. Even if it’s a shot of bourbon.”
Helen laughed. “I wanted to jump from a window and you want me to reach for pills and liquor?”
“I can tell by your tone that you aren’t going to hurt yourself. Your emotions needed an outlet and you called. That was the right thing to do. I can trust you with some form of a downer. Tomorrow, I want you to call Cory. Sort things out with her. Then, if you still need to talk, call me. I don’t care about the time. Just call me.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Helen hung up and let out a long sigh. She looked around her apartment. It looked exactly as it did before she met Cory. Tan carpet, cream walls, brown furniture, and a piano in the corner. No life. Not even a plant. It needed more color, perhaps. Lavender. Lavender with little pink triangles dotting the walls.
“I think not,” she said, then she went into the bedroom and flipped on the light. Right away, she saw what she’d left behind. Life. Over her bed hung an enlarged photograph Stacey had taken one day when Helen and Cory had felt adventurous. An identical copy hung in Cory’s bedroom. It was a nude shot, from the waist up.
The black-and-white photo displayed Cory lying in bed with an oversized pillow beneath her head. With her hair splashed around, the look of a woman who had just made love was projected. Helen leaned over Cory, resting on one arm, and their breasts touched lightly. Their mouths were open, nearing a kiss.
Helen remembered the day that seemed moments ago. She still felt Cory’s fingers slide against her cheek and pull her downward.
Theirs was a perfect photograph. Loving, sensual, provocative. It made you want to hold somebody. The photograph of the actual kiss was not a
s powerful, but the kiss itself Helen remembered well. Cory always kissed her as if for the first time. The passion was always there. She closed her eyes and felt that loving touch.
“Baby,” she said.
She reached for the bottle of pills on her dresser and poured its contents into her hand. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen of the red capsules lay in her palm, like a spreading bacterium.
“False sleep.” She dropped the drug and vial into the garbage. “I’d only feel worse in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The following afternoon, Marty called.
“Cory’s told me what had happened. I’m coming over later. I think we should talk.”
A speech, Helen suspected, when Marty’s tone had registered disappointment. She was about to hear the age-old “you aren’t healthy and your emotions are getting the best of you” speech, or something boringly similar. Whatever.
While she waited, Helen catnapped in her chair. Her night had been long, not with nightmares, but with continual thoughts of Cory and a fight that should never have happened. Anger had replaced logic. Helen had become reactive. Still, she felt betrayed and wondered if Cory’s accusations of infidelity were a redirection of her true thoughts. Maybe a smoke screen to hide how she felt about the show.
A heavy pounding on the door startled her awake. “Huh?” she said in a moment’s haziness.
“Helen, it’s Marty. You okay?”
“Yeah.” She steered her chair to the door and opened it. “Some hostess, huh?”
“I was worried something had happened to you.” Marty closed the door and then gave Helen a peck on the cheek. “I’ve brought dinner.” She set the bag on Helen’s lap and followed her into the kitchen. “We have tomato, onion, and cucumber salad, and fresh salmon. Do you like salmon?” She took the bag from Helen’s lap and emptied the contents onto the table. “Just what are you grinning about? You have that peanut farmer look again.”
Helen teased. “You said if Chamberlain and I ever—”
“Oh no. You two are already like Gert and Alice B. Hand in hand.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Tell me about that one.”
“Have you talked to her today?”
“No.”
Marty placed the salad into the freezer for a quick chill and searched the oven. “I think, and I say this as a friend, I think you should get your head out of your tush and meet her halfway.” She threw her arms into the air in frustration. “Where’s the broiling pan?”
“Top shelf, right side. Our goals are different.”
“Nobody keeps the broiling pan in the cabinet.” Marty gave it a quick rinse. “You should have redefined your goals together.”
“She lied.”
“Look. I know Cory well enough to understand that she’s panicked.” She sprinkled the salmon with lemon pepper and chives, shoved it into the broiler, and turned to Helen. She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “Coming out is a big damn deal to anyone. There’s more con than pro. She’s scared, but willing to stay in your relationship if you come out alone.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does. In her mind, she feels less threatened.”
“She’s too willing to write me off.”
“Come on, Helen. It was tough for her to admit the truth. Besides that, here you sit, writing her off as well.” She took two plates from the cabinet and grabbed some silverware. “Even if you have to fight like alley cats first, you can come up with a solution. Scratch each other’s eyes out if you have to. It could be worth it.”
“I think I’ll let her suffer for a while.”
“And how will you handle your own suffering?”
She watched Marty shuffle their dinner around the kitchen and considered her words.
So maybe I am suffering a little. A lot. Okay, a lot. We’d spent nearly three months together, day and night or on the phone when she was away. I love her, I miss her, and what the hell am I doing sitting here? I’m pouting. I’m mad. Damn mad. She didn’t put up enough fight for me. Bullshit to her. She was an emotional midget. “Compromise.” That’s all she had to say.
“Compromise,” Marty said and stressed the word with a meat fork. “I think you owe it to each other.”
“When I buy Chamberpot a thesaurus, I’ll pick one up for you, too.”
Marty shrugged. “It’s up to you. My immediate concern is for perfect salmon.” She pulled the sizzling steaks from the oven. “These are gonna be great.” The phone rang. “Shall I get it?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be right back.” Helen steered herself into the living room and picked up the phone. She didn’t have to check caller ID. She knew who was on the other end. “Hello.”
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
Only twenty-four hours had passed and already Helen missed Cory’s voice with a passion. There it was again: that brain-dead speechlessness Helen had felt with their first telephone conversation. Wishing to be near Cory, who awaited an answer, Helen sighed deeply. “What is it about you, Coryell Chamberlain?” she finally managed to say. “I can’t resist you.”
“I think it’s my swordtails.”
Helen laughed. “I think it’s more than that.”
“We need to talk.”
“I miss you,” she admitted. “I’m angry, but I love you, baby. Compromise, huh?”
“Or concede, give and take, a settlement—”
“Okay, smart-ass. Come over tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
“I love you, too. Good night, Helen.”
When Helen entered the kitchen again, Marty set down her glass of Chardonnay and laughed loudly. “Gotcha.”
“What?” Helen asked, trying to conceal her smile.
“You’re doing that Carter thing again. A compromise, maybe?”
Helen bit her lip and shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Yep. Really made her suffer, didn’t you?”
Helen felt her dimples go their deepest ever. “Eat your dinner.”
*
As it turned out, Cory’s idea of a compromise wasn’t much at all. She agreed to live with Helen but wouldn’t display their relationship in public, and, of course, she wouldn’t do the show. Back to square one.
“I don’t like it,” Helen said. “You’ll be guilty by association. If I’m the subject of gossip, I’d prefer it was legitimate.”
“I think the important thing is that we’re together.” Cory squeezed her hand.
Helen sulked while she glanced over Cory’s face. She liked her features. Her slight overbite gave her mouth a very desirable look. Not so much as a freckle marred her complexion, and she wore makeup only for performances. She was almost always fresh and natural.
She fooled with Cory’s wispy bangs. She smiled at her eyebrows. They were always ragged and erratic, never to lay normally. They were cute, Helen thought.
She looked down to Cory’s hand. The touch she adored. Cory reached to Helen’s chin and raised it. She always wanted to see Helen’s eyes when they talked. Only in the music room, when she had said no, had Cory not been able to look directly at her.
“If someone asks if we’re lovers, will you deny it?” Helen asked.
“I would be denying you. No. I would say the truth.”
Helen huffed. “That’s what I don’t understand!”
“Boston. It’s that simple. There’s a better chance of me staying with the orchestra if I don’t do the concert.”
Cory’s eyes stole Helen’s heart every time she looked at her, as they did at that moment. Helen relented. Cory would have Boston and the girl; Helen would have the show and the girl, but only in the privacy of their own home. Home. They still hadn’t settled on the issue of whether or not Helen would move to Boston. There was time. Either way, she agreed to Cory’s terms. Society had won.
*
Helen tried not to, but she took the compromise personally. She moved back in with Cory, but feeling more an embarrassment to her than her
lover, Helen picked random fights.
“I’ll be home next week to take you to the doctor,” Cory said during a practice break. “Have you been getting more feeling in your foot?” Helen continued to polish her nails and nodded yes. “I look forward to walking with you.”
Helen looked up from the table. She said nothing and then continued to apply a second coat of polish, as though she’d never heard Cory. Cory grabbed Helen’s hand to stop her. Helen pulled away.
“I’m talking to you, not to the fish.”
“I don’t think you should come to my appointment. I could need support and you may have to touch me in public.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Helen. Don’t do this to me.”
“What the hell are you so afraid of?” She stabbed the nailbrush back into the bottle and twisted it closed.
“We’ve been over all this!” Cory raised the volume of her voice to match Helen’s.
“What’s the worst thing anyone could do to you?”
“Take away the one passion I’ve spent my entire life nurturing.”
“I’m number two on your list?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean when you said you would do a show like ours if you had someone to show off to the world? Well, here I am, baby, and all you really want is to show off with your piano and baton. Period.” Helen wheeled toward the bedroom. Cory followed, but stopped at the doorway and faced Helen.
“And what makes you so self-righteous? The world won’t magically open their arms to us. They don’t like what we do.”
“Chamberlain, one day you’ll wake up and the only thing you’ll have is your damn piano.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s the truth, Cory. You’re pushing me away.”
“You’re pulling away. If you can’t handle things the way they are—”
“Now look who’s threatening.”
“I’ve had it with you.” Cory threw her arms out to her sides. “Take me as I am or don’t. You’ve pulled this crap attitude for two weeks and I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Helen followed Cory into the bedroom. She wanted to break the Chamberlain emotional barrier. Anger wasn’t enough. She wanted to burst into Cory’s brain, and then scratch and claw until Cory realized there was more to life than the almighty concerto. There was Helen, who wouldn’t play second for want of an orchestra.