“Don’t worry, we’ll grab it,” Nic sends back.
“Oh, honey, I wasn’t the least bit worried,” Violet says, and heads off, touching my curls as a parting gift.
“Mag, want to grab us a drink?” my ex babies her new girl.
The reality of being replaced nearly takes my breath away; a nothingness fills my insides. Insignificance is more painful than stepping on a nail.
Maggie nods and heads off toward Dad, who’s ranting to Violet about a group of hefty lesbians who have just squeezed through the gate. There are still no guys. I’m screwed.
“So, how’ve you been?” Nic’s tone is warm and familiar, like we might still be lovers.
“Good . . . good.” A wave of emotion floats around my heart. I push it down.
Her long stare has me scrunching my hair.
“You sure look good,” she says, glancing at the bar area.
Then she strokes my cheek with the back of her hand, whispering, “I miss you.”
I’m choked up, unable to speak.
“I messed up, and I have a feeling I’m gonna regret it forever,” she confesses.
I look into her eyes, unsure of everything, just as Violet slides back between us with Maggie in tow.
“Darlin’, your daddy is asking for you.” Violet takes my hand and pulls me away.
“Here.” She hands me a full glass, and I empty half of it in one gulp.
“I’m gonna have a chat with that PE teacher if she lays another hand on you.”
Violet glares like a wildcat back toward Nic. I head over to the bar, where Dad is filling the punch bowl with another fifth of Absolut. A few lesbians linger nearby.
“How ya doin’, Dad?” My buzz is kicking into high gear.
“What the hell is this?!” he demands with his voice raised.
I see some dykes turn toward us, alarmed.
“What?” I whisper, stepping closer to shield the guests from his rage.
“You said twenty-five guests. There’s at least one hundred here!” he yells, waving the ladle above the punch bowl.
“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t invite all these people,” I plead quietly.
“Well, I don’t see people, I see women!” He slams the spoon on the tablecloth, breaking it in half. The partygoers go mute.
“Dad, please calm down, I’m sure the guys are coming later.”
He glares at me, looking straight through my manipulation.
“We cannot disturb the Dorans or any other neighbors, so be sure this bloody music is turned down by 10 p.m. sharp!” he shouts as he storms toward the back door. A loud slam punctuates all the questions across the faces of my concerned guests as Prince begins to go crazy:
“Dearly beloved . . .”
“Ladies, how about some punch!” I throw a left jab toward the back door, as if I’m punching Dad. The backyard erupts into laughter, and we’re back in business. I slip out from behind the bar and grab Violet, pulling her toward the dance area.
Women converge on the concrete dance floor. Sisters bump, grind, bounce, and sway with each other. In the center of them all, I grab Violet’s round ass as she tongues me deeply right next to Nic and Maggie, who are moving in a slower, conservative step. I feel Nic’s eyes on us while Violet makes her point, refusing to take her mouth off mine. I salute my new girlfriend’s aggressiveness, while another part of me wants to punish my old one for dumping me. I feel someone’s arms around my waist, pulling me off Violet, and get spun around into Sandy’s drunken dance. Her aloofness has been taken hostage by the vodka.
Violet watches us dance extremely close before finally pulling me away from Sandy and back into her needy embrace. Nic hovers. I catch her critical eye on my girlfriend. We both know Violet’s attempt at aggression is weak compared to my ex’s dominance. Violet’s obvious clinginess embarrasses me, a turnoff. Unsure who to turn to for attention, I’m suddenly second-guessing everything. If I were single tonight, would Nic come back? Tell her safe bet, Maggie, not to let the gate hit her on the way out? But I’ve changed. I’m not interested in those boyish things: camping and smoking pot and drinking beer. I’m not sure I ever was, but I did feel loved and protected by Nic.
Dancing in the middle of all this static, loose from alcohol, I want to get away, go play. I search for Sandy, curious about her bold move, her sudden change of heart. I see her heading into the house alone, carrying a fresh drink and a cigarette.
“I’m gonna turn down the music a little before my dad goes off again!” I shout to Violet over Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” while Violet sways over to the punch bowl for a refill. I slip into the house, craving a thrill. Something taboo seems more exciting than what I can easily have. Moving through the empty kitchen toward the dining room, I hear Dad’s baritone voice singing “Edelweiss” in the living room. I peek around the paneled corner and find him sitting, legs crossed, on the couch, serenading a tall glass of wine. He’s over the angry interlude and seems fully grounded in his sloppy drunk phase. I knock on the bathroom door, hoping Sandy will let me in.
“Yeah, okay, be right out,” the Patsys shout in nervous unison.
I slip into the hallway and slide up the back steps quietly so Dad won’t hear the steps creak. I take a quick glimpse around the second floor, wondering where Sandy went, hoping she didn’t leave. Energy races through me as I listen for any sign of her upstairs. I have no idea what I’m going to say if I do find her, but I keep hunting anyway.
All’s quiet on the boys’ floor, so I climb the wooden steps to the third floor, where a soft light falls out of my bedroom. Inside, I catch Sandy in a private moment, holding Violet’s purse in one hand and applying lipstick with the other.
“What’s up?” I say, feeling a smirk take over, loose in my buzz, my hand resting on the doorjamb.
“Hey there,” she says, and stumbles toward the door, placing Violet’s lipstick cap back on.
She holds it out. “Want some?”
I examine her mood. Her normally defensive attitude is gone. There’s a playfulness on the surface. Faking interest in her Revlon, I step closer to her, taking hold of her small waist. Sandy doesn’t resist. Even though she’s older by a few years, she’s not strong like me, not as confident or daring. I love the surge I get from taking control, like my veins are filled with power fluid. I wonder if this is how Luke and Simon felt all those years ago.
“What’re ya doin’?” Her southern accent is evident for the first time.
“I was thinking of kissing you,” I say, asking permission.
Standing inches from her downturned face, I lift her chin and kiss her gently. No tongue. She keeps her mouth tight, not ready to surrender. My heart races, a mix of turn-on and the thrilling anxiety of hoping Violet doesn’t find us.
“You’re pretty,” I say, stepping her back effortlessly, like a ballroom dancer.
Allowing me to lead, she gives me confidence. I glide her back to the edge of the bed. She sits. I fall easily to my knees and push open her cooperative legs. Sex makes me forget what time it is, where I am, who I am. It zaps the right or wrong out of everything. I put my hand on top of her heated underwear. She releases a sigh of pleasure, and I kiss her hard, climbing on top of her. We seem to want each other—oblivious to an outside world, to Violet. We breathe hard, alcohol curling together, the taste of cigarette on her tongue. I reach between her legs, sliding my hand inside the elastic band. Finding her hard and wet, I begin rhythmically rubbing. I get uncomfortably aware that in Sandy’s sightline is the first poster I ever bought—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—taped on the wall. And right below that, on the radiator, she must see my childish gifts from Miss Lange: an oversized stuffed bunny, a polka-dotted family of beanbag frogs. Even though I’m proud of countless trophies, plaques, and my gold medal from the U.S. Youth Games, my room feels stupid and babyish, especially compared to Violet’s grown-up town house where Sandy still lives in the guest bedroom.
I make no attempt to quiet Sandy’s orgasm, knowing we
are three stories and a promise away from anyone ever finding out.
“You’re not going to say anything, are you?” I ask, moving flyaway hairs from her smeared mouth.
“Nah, it’s nothing Violet wouldn’t do.” She sounds resentful.
I climb off her and straighten my outfit in the full-length mirror, spotting Violet’s lipstick on the floor. Despite my flushed face, I need a makeover. I fluff my disheveled hair and dab some lipstick on my cheeks. Sandy stares at my reflection in the mirror.
“You do this a lot, don’t you?” she snips.
Her question knocks the wind out of me.
“Nah,” I lie.
As I leave the room, sadness and embarrassment battle for space.
I make it down the back stairs to the first floor, overhearing Violet and Dad laughing in the living room. With my senses distorted by my heightened anxiety, they sound underwater. I tiptoe around the corner, holding on to the paneled wall, its surface warping against my palm, as I grab a peek of them. Seeing Violet and Dad sitting close together, relaxed on the blue floral couch, relieves me. As usual, Sir John holds court; she is his captive audience. Dad adores being adored.
My panic attack fades and my sensations normalize. Thankfully, the back door handle feels right-size as I walk outside. The party is still hopping and gorgeous Heather is still parading around in her backless ivory dress. I’m ready for more.
As I strut around the pool toward the diving board, Heather saunters by and says, “Great party, Tina.”
I stop at the punch bowl for a quickie, then head up onto the diving board, feeling eyes upon me. Kicking off my pink heels, I slowly unzip my snug halter jumpsuit and peel it off. A light summer breeze sends a chill through my naked body.
“Hot!” a dyke calls out from a dark corner.
Whistles follow as I gracefully walk to the edge of the board and spring off in a forward dive. The hollers are muffled under the water. I remain below the surface, swimming the length of the pool, the alcohol buzz heightening the potent charge of being the star of this show. From the shallow-end wall, I hear the crashing of water. As I surface, rowdy women—all shapes and sizes—undress and jump into the pool. Nic watches me from the dance floor, no longer wrapped up with Maggie. She smiles at me, her lonely eyes saying what my heart feels, what I wish I could say: I’m sorry. I messed up. I miss you.
“Come in, Nic!” I shout.
Maggie desperately starts to undress, as if taking it personally and needing to prove a point.
Wearing sunglasses, Heather wades nude into the pool and lies outstretched on the steps at the shallow end, smoking a joint. She’s as intriguing and alone as Garbo.
“Hey, hostess, you want some?” Her low, sultry voice is a perfect match for her glamorous updo, which she’s keeping out of the water.
“Yes, I would,” I call playfully, and swim toward her. Up close, her eyes are painfully bloodshot. Pink party eyes. She puts the lit end of the joint into her mouth and pulls me toward her with her long legs. She blows the smoke into my mouth, and I seal it in—allowing the marijuana to work its magic. She takes the joint out, careful not to burn her full lips. I slide my body onto hers, water disappearing between us, and we kiss deeply and playfully—like two people just having fun, no love. She laughs when we part, tossing her head back and looking around like she just won a bet. Proving something to someone. I’m not sure who.
“Thanks for the hit.” I place my hand on her cheek, insecure and fighting for the last power play. I swim away, submerging myself again. The silence amplifies my racing mind, my fears of being caught for every sin. Countless white legs kick in the glowing water, and I swim faster toward them, wanting to escape the baggage of tonight and the weight of too many secrets anchored inside me.
19
Confession
“It looks so erect,” Violet screeches from the passenger seat.
“You know those Mormons,” I joke.
As I speed Violet’s brand-new Mercedes around the Beltway near Kensington, a few days after the Pink Party, the phallic-looking Mormon temple lights up the night sky—a cross between Dorothy’s Oz and the Disneyland castle. The windshield wipers flap hard as I cross lanes flooded from a summer storm. As I barely catch the Latter-Day exit, Violet stomps her heels with excitement. “Darlin’, where are you taking me?”
After a three-hour workout at the playground this afternoon, I dropped into Chevy Chase Market for two ice-cold bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé and some gourmet snacks. Nothing but the best, made possible by my father’s deep pockets and forgetful nature. His amnesia regarding his poolside rant is one-sided—I’m still secretly licking my open wound from being yelled at during the party. His leaving me two one-hundred-dollar bills the morning after—on the still-gooey dining room table—did little to dull the pain.
“Your dad wants us to go to the Lost and Found when he gets back from Rome,” Violet announces as I barrel us toward the temple.
“When did he say that?”
“At the party.”
She lights her Dunhill with a nearly empty Bic.
“While you two watched the sunrise?” I tease, masking my jealousy at their closeness.
“Darlin’, you can’t believe the things he was telling me.”
“What?” I say, pulling into the parking lot of the Mormon temple.
“That he works for the Vatican and that’s why he’s always in Rome.” Her eyes are electric.
“WHAT?! He was toasted, don’t believe him. He exaggerates. What else did he say?”
“That’s it, and then he nodded out for a couple minutes—bless his heart—and then he was talking about your mom and what a saint she is.”
I squeeze the steering wheel, a possessiveness taking over. He’s my dad, not yours.
Violet takes in the majestic temple through the rain-splattered windshield.
I throw the car into park and kill the ignition. We sit among rows of empty parking spaces. The fog adds an eeriness to the illuminated structure and the conversation. I look up at the imposing building, wondering if the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints has followers secretly working for its leader, or is it just the Catholic Church that does that?
It’s impossible to wrap my head around this story. Why would he tell her and not me? Why would he call my mother a saint and treat her like a sinner? What would the Vatican hire my father for? I feel a strange need to protect him, my family, myself. “Stay out of our secrets,” I want to tell her. I consider the briefcases, his special relationship with Archbishop Magni, the wads of cash, and the talk of Mossad watching him. Is he a spy for the Vatican? A courier of some kind? I don’t know what to believe.
“What do you think he does for the Vatican?” she muses.
I reach into the backseat for the wine and the bottle opener I took from the kitchen drawer before Mom got home from the office. I’ll bet she’d be shocked to know Dad speaks kindly about her. But probably not as shocked as she’d be to learn that horny naked women were squirming around in her pool on Saturday night, or that her baby, the ringleader, was the horniest of them all.
In the two days since she returned from the reunion, I’ve been avoiding Mom by working out during the day and going out at night. I can’t bear to look into her disappointed eyes right now. I’m afraid she’ll see guilt in mine, or notice the pink stains under my fingernails from dyeing all the hors d’oeuvres with food coloring. I am already nervous about having to drive with her to the office, hoping there won’t be a stream of increasingly suspicious questions about what I did while she and my siblings were at the family reunion. Dad and I agreed it’s best not to say a word about the pool party. “It doesn’t concern your mother,” he said. I love that he is trying to protect me, cover for me after all the covering I’ve done for him. It still blows my mind to think that just a few years ago, I mostly just felt anger, fear, sometimes even hatred toward him. Now, I’m his best friend, and here he is shielding me from Mom.
I tw
ist open the cork and pour the chilled chardonnay into crystal goblets that I took out of the china cabinet.
“Salute,” I say, wanting to drop the whole Vatican mystery.
Violet stares into my eyes, moving a strand of hair out of my face. “I love you,” she whispers, kissing my nose.
Not expecting the L-word, I glance away. Violet stays on me, as if awaiting a response. I take a long sip of wine.
“Me too,” I mumble, not meaning it, but when it comes to the truth, I’m in the habit of being tongue-tied, just going along with things. I’m angry that I have to keep track of a million lies, never really being me—whoever the fuck that is.
Maybe I will feel “in love” tomorrow, or next month, but today, I’m sure I’m not.
I love her body, but I’m overwhelmed—sometimes even turned off—by how much Violet seems to love me and how needy she can be. When I see neediness, it’s as if I’m seeing a brown bear. I want to run like hell.
The chardonnay goes down easily as we sit quietly, listening to the rhythm of the rain, looking at the magnificent spires desperately reaching into the sky for a God connection.
Giggly from polishing off two bottles of vino while we waited for the rain to stop, I lead Violet into the foyer of 5 East Irving Street. Too much alcohol and too many cigarettes have me light-headed and ravenous. Thank God the house is quiet. Mom always goes to bed early when Dad’s away.
“Let’s raid the refrigerator,” I joke, pretending I’m a stoner.
Violet laughs, wrapping her arm around me. We walk like pals toward the kitchen, giving each other a drunken peck on the lips.
“Tina? Is that you?” Mom says from just around the corner. We drop arms and straighten up like cadets. I shove Violet behind me. Entering the kitchen with a casual bounce, I can feel my smile is way too exaggerated. Mom sits at the breakfast bar with a box of Ritz crackers in front of her. The half-eaten package is ripped open.
“Yup, it’s me, Mom,” I overenunciate.
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