Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  Tonight, I settle on an off-the-shoulder black minidress, white fingerless gloves, and ankle boots, and I’m definitely wearing ripped hose again. I wrap three bangles on my left arm and finish with a big swipe of soft pink lipstick and extra black mascara. My heart starts racing as I head downstairs, wondering what lie to offer my mother this time. I certainly can’t say, “Mom, I’m having dinner at the Foundry with an older woman I tongued last week at a lesbian bar.”

  As I head for the kitchen, I hear Simon’s voice, and the usual tightening of my stomach begins.

  “Hi,” I say, bracing myself for a critique.

  “Whoa, looks like Kate got into your closet, cut up your gloves and your stockings.” Simon offers his typical sarcasm.

  “For your information, smart-ass, I did cut the buttons off Frances’s coat, but only after she tore the zipper off my prom dress,” Kate barks at Simon.

  “Tina, aren’t you glad it’s just you and me now?” My mother pats my shoulder, sensing my irritation.

  “So where are you going?” Kate drills.

  “To find a needle and thread, I hope.” Simon laughs.

  “Out.”

  “Oh, ‘out.’ Out where, chump?” he challenges me.

  It gives me great pleasure to ignore him, since I can’t do what I really want to do to him.

  “Mom, I’ll be home later. I’m going to a party at Nic’s house.”

  “I haven’t heard that name in a while,” Mom fishes.

  “She’s been away with her boyfriend . . . and Dad said I could use his car.”

  “Of course he did, kiss-ass,” Simon says.

  “Night, Mom.” I peck her cheek, ignoring the others.

  “You shouldn’t be going out, you should be in the gym working out.” Simon shakes his head at me.

  “Maybe you should be at your own house with your wife on Saturday night,” I throw back.

  Simon furrows his brow. He’s not used to me throwing a jab. He stumbles, grasping for a comeback, while Kate laughs. I hightail it out of the kitchen, slapping the door jamb on my way out, imagining it’s his stubbly face.

  “And you better not drink and drive!” Simon shouts at me.

  Fuck him.

  Parking anywhere in Georgetown is a pain in the ass. After four loops around the cobblestone streets near the restaurant, I settle on a parking lot across from the Foundry.

  When Violet called me on Sunday, I knew our Shescape encounter wasn’t just a drunken one-night feel-up fest for her. I’m still not sure what it was for me. But I told her, “I’d love to have dinner with you,” in my most mature voice. Walking from the car, I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. God, I need a drink.

  The Foundry gives you the feeling that someone might still be making muskets in the next room, in order to drive out the Royal Navy. My father would hate this place. He gets agitated when discussing the fall of the redcoats to the colonists. “You bloody Americans don’t know how to win graciously,” he’d say.

  “Hey, Miss Thing, look at you.” Violet greets me by the hostess station with a gentle kiss on my cheek. Her low-buttoned lightweight blazer is all that’s between me and her purposefully exposed bra. Her floral perfume smells so much better than Nic’s. Violet takes my hand. “Come on, I reserved one of the booths with the curtain.”

  I smile at a few men in suits at the bar checking us out, proud to have this beautiful woman leading my way and happy to be ogled, too. As I watch her full hips sway in front of me, her pencil skirt snug as a well-made bed, I’m certain no one here would ever suspect she likes women. We step down into a small room with about ten booths, each covered by a floor-to-ceiling burgundy curtain, offering a completely private dining experience.

  “Isn’t this fine?” Violet coos, as a waitress steps forward to pull back the curtain for us. The tabletop—a thick wooden slab—is set with heavy silverware, white cloth napkins, and a small glass vase with red roses and baby’s breath.

  “May I get you ladies a drink?” our perky waitress asks. She’s probably a student from Georgetown, with her good skin and tortoiseshell headband.

  “Do you have Pouilly-Fuissé?” Violet asks.

  “No, bring us a bottle of Dom Pérignon, please.”

  Violet lets out her high-pitched scream. The waitress laughs, says, “Okay,” then closes the curtain.

  “Well, excuse me, Miss Thing!”

  “I got this tonight.” I nod at the menu with confidence, knowing we can order anything on the menu and I’ll still have money left over for the club.

  We look at each other, smiling. Violet is so alive, no longer dulled by Bloody Marys. Her hazel eyes dance, and her face is far more beautiful—freshly made up like a doll’s, with red narrow lips—than I remember. I wipe my sweaty palms on the banquette.

  The waitress calls from the other side of the curtain, “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” I joke, and everyone laughs.

  Our champagne is presented and poured into red crystal champagne flutes. “Thank you.” I nod.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Violet adds.

  “Ladies, we have some awesome specials tonight . . .”

  “What’s your name?” I interrupt.

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah, we are going to take things slowly.”

  “Oh, sure, take your time. There’s a bell right here.” She points to the corner of the booth next to Violet where a knotted rope hangs. “When you are ready, just pull and I’ll be right over.”

  Sarah moves the silver champagne stand closer to our table and yanks the drape closed.

  “Let’s not save any libations for the gods tonight,” I announce, holding my glass in the air.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Well, I was born down the street at George Washington Hospital. I was supposed to be born at Georgetown, a Catholic hospital. But my mother’s OB/GYN was vacationing in Bermuda,” I say with a straight face.

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, downing my champagne.

  “I was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, and came to D.C. to work for my congressman.”

  “Wow, you work on Capitol Hill?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I was there on a field trip once in seventh grade—with my lover, Miss Lange.”

  Violet nearly chokes on her champagne, then finally coughs out, “WHAT? You had a ‘lover’ named Miss Lange in seventh grade?”

  I nod. “Yeah, well, Jane—Miss Lange—she was my homeroom teacher. We were together for three years . . . secretly.”

  “Oh my God, that’s child abuse.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t, you don’t understand. I was really mature for my age,” I brag.

  “What am I gonna do with you?” she says, pressing her body forward, her breasts resting on the tabletop.

  Nervous, I take control, feigning the confidence of a quarterback. I call for her hand, kissing it, and then put her index finger in my mouth, the way I would a grape Popsicle. She makes a tiny groan and wraps her bare foot around my calf. The foreplay calms me.

  “What do you want to do with me?” I say playfully. I grab as much as my hand will hold inside her bra. And we are on. Our starving faces come together, creating a hot centerpiece; tongues pushing, hands squeezing. Utensils clink together noisily beneath us. In the midst of our making out, we move our flutes out of the way.

  “You ladies okay?” Sarah calls.

  “Fine,” I say, jerking myself back against the banquette.

  “All right, just let me know.” She sounds mistrustful of us behind the curtain, or maybe it’s my Catholic guilt. I reach for the bottle and give Violet’s glass a long slow pour, then move it to her red-stained lips. As her lips part, I gently pour the bubbly in her mouth; then I finish off the rest.

  “Come here,” Violet whispers, moving her face toward mine over the table.

  “No, lean back.” I reach my hand under the table, open her crossed legs, and gently slide my body down t
he booth, under the table. The space is barely big enough for me to fit sitting back on my knees. Two Ferragamo heels welcome me, like ladies in waiting.

  “Oh, darling!” Violet releases a little scream, equal parts desire and fear, as I push up her skirt. My wide hands slide down her hips, taking her panties past her thighs and finally removing the twisted fabric from around her feet. As I throw my face between her legs, smothering myself in her wetness, she wraps her legs over my shoulders. Her warm hands dig through my soft curls and finally settle down, holding my head exactly where she wants it. Her short breaths quicken as my tongue moves religiously over her. My heartbeat pumps against my chest; my face is on fire, listening to her getting closer. Purposely, I slow down, pull back, teasing her desperate body. She thrusts her hips forward, pushing her swollen flesh into my face. But it’s not enough; I want her chest, too. Reaching up under her jacket, I find her nipple pushing out from her bra. She moans loudly, and I quickly cover her slack mouth—a gentle reminder that we are behind the red curtain.

  Violet reaches back, unhooking her bra. I slide my face away from between her legs and push the base of the table back a few inches, making space for me to squeeze up against her, like a boa constrictor slithering from underneath the table, mouth landing all over her freed breasts. I’m reborn here, wide mouthed and ravenous for all of it to fit in my mouth. As I suck her nipple, my hand slides down, feeling the wet leather seat. The smell of floral perfume is everywhere as I enter her easily with my fingers. Violet groans. Her nails dig into my back inside my dress. I pump my forearm—pushing deeper into her.

  “Ladies, how’s the bubbly?” Sarah shouts from outside the curtain.

  Stopping my body on a dime, my heart refuses, speeding ahead with adrenaline.

  “Darlin’, we are just fine. Not ready for you . . . THANK YOU!”

  Violet’s cover is smooth.

  “Okay, just pull the rope.” Our waitress sounds disappointed in us.

  Slowly, I begin to move again, licking my way off her breast, down her silky torso, landing my breathy kisses just below her belly button. My hands reach between her legs, opening her lips but not touching. Her body shudders.

  “Oh my God.” She takes my head, forcing it between her legs. Happily buried again, I hear her breath speed up; her throat sounds like a motor revving; her hips rock rhythmically. Knowing she’s ready, I mask her mouth with my palm. Violet’s moan explodes into my hand, her wetness into my mouth as she climaxes—her warm body electrocuting against me; her glowing doll face making a final surrender backward against the soft leather banquette.

  14

  Coronation

  “FUCK!” I shout, discovering that the digital bedside clock reads 10 a.m.

  My alcohol-soaked brain struggles to solve a normally easy calculation. If it’s 10 a.m., what speed do I have to drive in order to get to Dulles Airport for a 10:30 a.m. arrival from Rome?

  I’m missing an important part of the equation: Where am I?

  My father’s voice reverberates in my head: “I’ll be arriving early Sunday, so let’s plan on heading straight to brunch, and then onto tea dance at the Lost and Found.”

  I dry-heave at the thought of a drink. My temples throb. Lying on my numb shoulder, Violet doesn’t budge. Her nakedness is spread out on the queen-size bed like a Playboy photo shoot, a cream satin sheet covering just below her knees. I assume this is her four-poster bed, but how did we get here? I’m too embarrassed to wake her up and ask. I roll away from her dead weight—135 pounds, I’d guess, of voluptuousness.

  Standing brings on another rush of nausea and chills, so I sit naked on the edge of the bed, trying to find a clue amid the expensive antique furniture. The hardwood floor looks like a natural disaster, with tossed lingerie, high heels, a tequila bottle, and one fingerless glove. The rest of our clothes form a trail from the doorway. This is no time to be hungover, or horny, or late.

  Sir John is waiting.

  The silk curtains aren’t doing much to keep out the bright morning sun as I scan the residential street below for my father’s red convertible. A Cadillac, Mercedes, and other expensive cars are parked outside the crisp Washingtonian townhomes on this unrecognizable street. Where did she tell me that she lived? I vaguely recall leaning up against the wall at a bar, watching a drag queen sing. The rest is a blur. One story below, there’s no sign of my father’s car. I slip on my underpants, feeling tight and sore between my legs, as if the sex went on all night.

  I check the clock again, feeling lost and massively confused, the way I did in Sister Mary Claire’s chemistry class. Too many mysterious elements; a missing nucleus. Fuck, what am I going to do? What would Jesus do? Or Ted Kennedy? I finish dressing and rush into an upstairs hallway. A flight of wooden steps with an antique runner down the middle looks vaguely familiar. Down the floral-wallpapered hall is a narrow table with a red lacquer Princess phone. I walk quietly toward it. On the hallway table, calla lilies fill a cylindrical glass vase. I pray no one else lives here. Across the way is a powder blue bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a large sink with spotless silver hardware. I grab the phone and dial.

  “May I have the number for Alitalia airlines?” My voice—huskier than normal—startles me. A vision of sharing a pack of cigarettes with Violet on a couch must be real, and would account for my Lauren Bacall register today. I jot down the number and dial. The warm Italian accent on the other end is soothing to my battered everything. I pray for a miracle with a silent improvisational medley of the Lord’s Prayer, a Hail Mary, and an appeal to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, probably surprising him by begging him to delay a flight rather than ensure its timely arrival. As the agent looks up the flight information, I scope the hallway, wondering if Sandy, the sort of ex-girlfriend, lives here. A lot of lesbians think breaking up means moving into the other bedroom. Women, more than men, it seems, can’t say good-bye.

  After a few minutes, I learn that Sir John’s Roman flight is going to be twenty minutes late. Rushing back into the bedroom, I find that Violet is still comatose. I have no choice but to wake her.

  “Violet? Violet? Where am I?”

  She releases a soft groan.

  “My bed,” her voice cracks.

  “Where’s my car?”

  Her eyes open wide.

  “It’s not in the alleyway?”

  “What alleyway?”

  A small, sleepy chuckle falls out of her soft lips.

  “Out the kitchen door, in the back.” She smiles at my relief.

  I lean in and kiss her with a closed mouth, realizing I haven’t brushed my teeth.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Noooooooooo, you can’t.”

  She playfully pulls me into her.

  “I’ll be dead if I don’t get to Dulles right now . . . what’s the best way from here?” I say, not telling her I still don’t know where “here” is.

  “The end of the street, turn onto GW Parkway, to 495, then follow the signs.”

  I walk coolly out of her room in last night’s clothes, then dash like mad into the bathroom and quietly open the medicine cabinet. I squeeze some toothpaste onto my index finger and scrub my drunken, sex-filled night out of my mouth. Hustling down the stairs, I spot my purse lying on a beautiful navy blue couch in the living room. A full marble ashtray and an empty pack of Dunhills sit on the coffee table. There’s one sure way to never get playing time: smoke.

  All these distractions make me want to cry and scream. I grab my purse and rush out the kitchen door. The saunalike air drains what little energy I have. Unlocking the car door, I make a swear-to-God promise to work out twice as hard tomorrow and every day this week, no matter what. And definitely no more drinking. I turn the ignition, hear a hiccup, and then nothing. Pumping the accelerator, I turn it over a few more times.

  “COME ON! COME ON!”

  Scanning the dash, my eyes land on the gas gauge: empty.

  “FUCK, NO WAY!”

  I pump again
, keeping my eyes on the needle. It won’t rise.

  “Fuck you, Saint Christopher.”

  I wish I could just punt. Give the ball over to the other team. But the head honcho is waiting. I jump out of the car and run back inside, sprinting the stairs two at a time.

  “I knew yew’d be back, Miss Thing.” She smiles from the bed.

  “My car’s out of gas.”

  “Oh, darlin’, take mine. The keys are probably in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I dash out of the bedroom.

  “You can drive a stick shift, right?” she shouts.

  My heart sinks. I head back into the room, feeling like a total loser. Nic tried to teach me to drive a standard a few times, but I hate not being good at stuff in front of other people, so I gave up.

  “No,” I sigh.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you.” She jumps out of bed and finds her bra.

  “No, I have to pick him up alone!”

  Her face drops into a sad clown expression. “Well, how ya gonna do that, Miss Thing?”

  She stares at me as she slips on her bra and panties. There’s no time for me to be distracted by her body, but I am.

  “All right, yeah, sure, that would be great, if you drive. I’m just going to make a quick call, all right?”

  She nods, and I hustle into the hallway to call the person I need most right now. I dial. Her hello is pleasant but holds that familiar shadow of sadness.

  “Hi, Mom!”

  “Tina, I was worried sick! Where are you?” she asks, a hint of anger coating her words.

  “I am so sorry, I . . . fell asleep at Nic’s house . . . I stayed to help her clean up after the party . . . and then just fell asleep. Sorry . . . anyhow, I have to pick up Dad. I might be a few minutes late.”