by May Sarton
“I’ve found the book I want,” Eve interrupts, coming to show us a book of poetry in a bright red cover. “It’s poetry. You can read it to us, Momma. We can learn it by heart. There’s a poem about a lamb.”
Serena is less happy. “There are so many books about Babar, how can I choose one?”
“You may choose one today and next week you may choose another,” says Nan firmly.
“I don’t want to wait till next week.” Serena is close to tears.
“Now, kids, I want you to go back and sit quietly because Momma has something she wants to say and it is important.” Nan turns now to the two women. “On the whole this is a rather dreary neighborhood. There are plenty of bars for the men but where can women go to browse and talk to each other? Where can a woman find books that really speak to what interests her, what she needs to know, and meet other women who are longing for someone to talk with? For instance, a young painter who feels isolated, and then Miss Hatfield hangs her paintings. Imagine what a lift that is!”
I am so happy and feel so supported by Nan’s clever defense that I can’t help smiling, and of course it is splendid that she came with the children.
Ferguson and Thomas exchange a glance.
“For me it has been an enrichment, I must say.”
I can’t help putting my oar in now. “So many interesting women have come, so many women who have a lot to give and a lot to give each other.”
“The Women’s Auxiliary fulfills that purpose for us very well,” Ferguson says with bland self-satisfaction.
“But if you will forgive me for saying so, you would meet each other anyway, but all kinds of women come here,” I say.
“I can see that,” says Mrs. Thomas, glancing over at Nan.
“Well, I think we had better be going now,” says Mrs. Ferguson.
“I do hope you will spread the word about the bookstore, that we welcome diversity and discussion. It is an open door.” I guess by the way they put on their gloves and nod a goodbye that they have been somewhat nonplussed. “It makes me sad when my good will is misread and I myself treated as some sort of unwanted intruder.”
“It’s not you, Miss Hatfield,” Mrs. Thomas says, “it’s the people the store draws in.”
“What don’t you like about them?”
It is Nan who lifts her head from a book she has been immersed in. “That they are black?”
“Oh no, we have black members of the church. We feel it is very important to include minorities.”
“Then who are these unwanted people? I’m a fairly steady customer and I’ve never seen anyone pushing crack!” says Nan.
“It’s gays and their possible influence on our children. I’m afraid you can’t deny that you have a good many gay customers,” says Mrs. Ferguson, still at the door, which is half open so she is turning back to say this and it gives it a slightly unpleasant thrust, as though it could only be said on the way out.
“I don’t deny it for a minute. They are welcome, but they do not dominate the atmosphere by any means. Did you notice the window as you came in? All those great women … it was fun setting it up. I felt so proud.” But these tentative gestures of friendliness are no use, of course. I am facing a door barred and locked against me. “Well,” I add, as the door is slowly being shut and they are almost out of hearing, “goodbye and I hope you’ll come again.” Now I turn to Nan and give her a spontaneous hug. “You were wonderful.”
“They were incredible, weren’t they?”
Now the thought occurs to me, “But they can’t be the threatening ones, can they? I had another anonymous threat, you know.”
“It has occurred to me that it might be a woman, by the way, but these two seemed rather vague and not the plotting kind. They will make a big fuss at a kaffee klatsch and that will be it,” Nan says.
“Let’s hope so,” and I add, “It shouldn’t but it does upset me and makes me feel a little sick. Let’s have a cup of tea.”
“What is so depressing is ignorance, isn’t it?” Nan murmurs.
“I was tempted to say that I am a lesbian myself but thought better of it. That could be so distorted in the telling.” I am weary of all this. It’s been going on too long. Let the store flourish in peace, I want to say, leave us alone, but this is the effect of fatigue and fear, a poor mixture, as I am well aware.
I hate to see Nan and the children go, but she suddenly sees the time and hurries them off.
20
Now in October the dark creeps in and makes one feel the day is over, whereas, I realize looking at my watch, it is only five. Four to six are apt to be the busiest hours.
“I’m suddenly out flat,” I say to Joan. “Be an angel and put the kettle on, will you?”
“You get an anonymous threat, you go to a funeral, you meet prying old women on your return … and you are amazed that you are done in!”
“It sometimes feels as though each day were a lifetime.”
“Sit still and I’ll bring the tea. I could do with some myself. That O’Reilly is a frustrating man. Oh how I wish we could once and for all catch whoever it is!”
“It has occurred to me,” I say with my head in my hands, “that not doing anything except continue to threaten may be their strategy—drive us out by creating an impossible psychological climate.”
“It could very well be,” Joan says from the kitchen.
“Anyway, Andrew is coming around for supper so I won’t be alone this evening. And that reminds me I must call Joe and see whether I could bring Andrew around. It may be that Eddie doesn’t want anyone to come, but I have a feeling it might do Andrew good to be with them, and he perhaps even help them.” We drink our tea in silence. One of the wonderful things about Joan is that we can be silent for considerable moments without self-consciousness. That is one of my tests of friendship … and how rare it is! “Of course, it may be too late. Joe says Eddie is angry and on edge. Why wouldn’t he be hard to get along with?”
“What a nightmare,” Joan says, “and so unfair. They seemed such a happy, civilized couple. It shouldn’t have happened.”
After Joan has gone home and I have locked up downstairs I do call Joe and he seems amazingly cheerful. It is because Eddie has marched at the State House in Boston, and is filled with angry pride.
“Angry against fate?” I ask.
“No, against the heterosexual world which has simply taken a righteous view of AIDS as punishment for sinners and refuses to admit that it is a universal problem.”
I ponder this news. Andrew doesn’t quite fit in from what I hear but I decide to risk it. “My brother Andrew is coming tonight to defend me. There has been another threat. It does make me feel rather naked before the wind, I must confess.”
“The strategy is to terrify, is my guess,” Joe says. “If you tough it out as you are doing, they may give up.”
“That’s what I say to myself. But, Joe, I have wanted for a long time to introduce Andrew to you and Eddie. I thought maybe if you became friends—and God knows he is lonely—he might be able to spell you when Eddie needs someone there, as I expect he will eventually. Is that a crazy idea?”
“Not at all,” Joe says with real warmth. “Why don’t you bring him over after supper? It may prevent another fight. Eddie takes his anxiety out on me these days, but he is fond of you, as you know, and will love to meet your brother.”
“Splendid. We won’t stay long because … well, I’m afraid something will happen if I’m not here. The whole place could burn down in a few minutes.”
“It’s gone on long enough, hasn’t it? I mean the suspense and anxiety. I hope and pray one of these guys will get caught, and soon.”
“But how will they ever get caught? The police couldn’t care less.” I sense that Joe has enough on his mind without my problems and end the conversation as soon as possible, but not before he has again made me promise to call at any time of night or day if I should need help.
“I’ll get there faster than the
police at any rate.”
When I put the receiver down I feel both warmed and chilled, warmed by Joe’s unfailing response and kindness, and at the same time chilled by my exposure and fear in spite of friends, in spite of Andrew. When I come right down to it, I am alone, alone against an unknown, possibly dangerous antagonist.
On the one hand, the store is being built into the community. A large part of my dream is coming true. On the other hand, I am myself despised, even hated, for being myself, for having loved a woman, for being honest about that. Tonight I am more aware than usual of what this does to any sense of wholeness in my endeavor toward the community. I am torn in two.
“It’s not fair, Patapouf,” I say, bending down to rub her soft furry head and ears, finding what comfort there is in the dear creature who would not allow me to be attacked, who would defend me, old and lame though she is. At the moment she is making her groans of pleasure, and the moment is soothing.
“Maybe I had better take you for a short walk before Andrew comes.” Her immediate response is to heave herself up, wagging her tail hopefully. I put on a coat and we trundle down the stairs. As usual at this homecoming hour the street is full of people and I am glad to be outdoors.
About a quarter of a mile from the store there is an empty lot, overgrown, full of debris, and this is one of Patapouf’s favorite places, because of the marvelous and varied smells she finds there, from old rubber tires to bits of wood that are sometimes chewable, and delicious coarse grass. She has found an ambrosial tuft now and is determined to chew it bit by bit, but I’m anxious to get back and not keep Andrew waiting, so I give the leash a tug. At that second I hear a shot and pull hard on the leash. We must get out of here, I am thinking, and fast, but Patapouf is lying down. When I kneel, sensing something is very wrong, I get blood on my hands as I lift her head and I can see her suffering puzzled eyes. Now she goes limp suddenly and I scream, “Help! Help!” and people materialize around me.
“Are you all right?” It is an old man who kneels down beside me, very concerned. “You’re covered with blood! Were you shot?”
“I’m all right. It’s my dog. They got my dog. Someone call the S.P.C.A., and fast, for God’s sake!”
Suddenly there is someone crouching down beside me and I realize as I feel his arm around me that it is Andrew. “I’ll take care of this,” he says. “You must get home, Harriet.”
“I can’t leave Patapouf. Someone is calling the S.P.C.A.” I find it hard to speak. I feel muffled, unable to take in in any rational way why I am here in a vacant lot with a crowd peering in at me and Patapouf bloody on the ground.
“Has someone called the police?” I hear Andrew ask.
Yes, that has been done, but in answer to his second question, “Did anyone see whoever fired the shot?” there is no response.
Now a young girl bends down and says in a low voice, “I heard the shot as I was coming along and I saw an old woman running across the street. Wild gray hair, and she seemed to be carrying a rifle.”
“Will you be willing to tell the police about this?” Andrew asks in a low voice. All around us I can feel the pressure of people coming in closer, whispering to each other, and it flashes through my mind, suddenly alert, that the attacker being a woman makes sense. It has occurred to me that it could be a woman. A fanatic. It is like being shot in the back.
Time stops. What seems like hours may be at most a half-hour before the S.P.C.A. truck drives up and the police finally make an appearance. “Andrew,” I whisper to him, “tell them I want her cremated.” At least in that interminable half-hour I have come to admit that she is dead. The men are very kind and gentle as they lift the body up. “I want to go with her,” I am now sobbing. “It’s so lonely for her to go alone.”
But Andrew holds me back firmly. “I have to get you home, Harriet. You can’t help the dear thing now, and you must wash off the blood.” I am standing and recognize the black police officer. He has his notebook out and is busily writing things down. “Sir,” Andrew says, “there is a woman here who saw a woman with a gun run across the street after the shot.”
“Yes.” The young woman comes up to the officer and tells him her story. The crowd is beginning to melt away at last. Several people speak to me to express sympathy and outrage.
One elderly woman says, “I can’t believe it, that such a cruel thing could happen here. That old woman is obviously crazy and should be put away—and people like that can get hold of a gun!” She is explosive, but I can’t respond. I cling to Andrew’s arm and see that he is right. I must get home as fast as possible. Luckily he has his car. I am not sure I can walk, and it is an escape, too, from all the eyes.
“Do you think she shot Patapouf by mistake, that you yourself may have been the target?” Andrew asks me as we sit in the frighteningly empty room, Patapouf’s bed in the corner, her water dish with her name on it near the fridge. There is something in me that wants to be alone, in spite of Andrew’s support, but thank goodness he did come to the lot. What would I have done without him?
“I don’t know. How can I know? But, Andrew, I am ready to believe that the goon who is after me may, after all, be a woman. In an odd way it makes sense.”
“Why?” Andrew asks.
“It’s women, after all, who are violent against lesbians. This afternoon two fussbudgets turned up from Our Lady of the Sacred Heart and sniffed around like dogs looking for drugs. They would not be violent perhaps, but someone on a different level, a fundamentalist or simply a crazy who has found something and someone to hate. The need to hate runs deep and strong these days. You know that, Andrew, you do know that.”
“Yes, I do. So again I marvel at your courage.”
“The bad thing is that I have no reason to believe the police will catch this creature.”
Andrew looks up now and scrutinizes me. “Harriet, this time something has to be done, if it means hiring a private detective. I am going to talk to Fred about this. We are simply not going to sit by and let you live here in danger.”
“But I’m not going to be driven away, Andrew. You are aware of that, I trust?”
“You’re not going to run out under fire.” He smiles his warm smile and squeezes my hand. “Bully for you.”
I feel very tired and want terribly to be alone for a while, but I remember that I have told Joe and Eddie that we would drop in after supper. Could Andrew go alone? That might be just as well. So I suggest he get a bite to eat at the little French restaurant and then go and meet them alone.
“You are anxious to get rid of me, aren’t you?” he teases.
“Yes, I guess I am. I’m still in a state of shock.”
“May I drop in afterwards just to be sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’ll be in bed by then, but that’s all right. It was wonderful that you were there in the vacant lot. Thank you, dear Andrew,” and I add, “I hope you like Joe and Eddie. They are in such a nightmarish thing with Eddie having AIDS, but they will like you, I feel sure. And right now they need support and distraction.”
The minute I hear the door close downstairs and Andrew’s car revving up it is as though I have been holding back an earthquake for hours and now it can explode. It is more like a howl than an outburst of tears and what explodes through me is not only Patapouf but also Vicky, Vicky … for in losing the old dog who was our friend and companion for fifteen years, I lose Vicky. As long as Patapouf was with me, Vicky was still here. I feel absolutely abandoned and, for the first time since Vicky’s death, possessed by grief and by nothing else. “How can I live without you?” I say aloud to the empty dog dish and the empty dog bed.
I do not know. I can’t imagine where to bury the ashes when I go to get them. Here there is no garden, nowhere to plant a lilac, and now I think of Angelica and how good she has been to the old dog and how she loved her. Angelica! It is like a reprieve for a moment even to think of her, but I can’t bring myself to call her as it would mean telling the whole brutal story. To
what end? And I cannot stop crying. I must not inflict this on anyone until I have somehow got hold of myself, but it is a comfort to think of burying Patapouf in Angelica’s beautiful garden. That gives me the courage to drink a glass of milk, get undressed, and get into bed, but I can’t put my grief to bed, my mind racing, memories welling up, tears rolling into my ears. How can I call this house home if there is nowhere in its space to bury my dog?
It is Vicky speaking. Furious with me for being the instrument of Patapouf’s death, for insisting on opening a bookstore in such a desolate neighborhood, for spending a fortune on a losing proposition from the start. “Oh Vicky!” I long for her arms around me, for her way of knowing what to do always, never hesitating. Vicky was so sure of herself, and I am not. I embark on what she would call a wild venture without really knowing what I am doing. Far worse, I antagonize people by coming out as a lesbian. If I am in trouble, it is my own fault.
When the phone rings I wonder whether I have the courage to answer it, but luckily I do because it is Joe. “I’m in a bad way, Joe,” and the tears start streaming down again.
“Andrew told us, of course. It’s too terrible, Harriet. It’s time something was done.”
“I don’t mind about that,” I stammer between loud embarrassing sobs, “it’s Patapouf. And, Joe, it’s Vicky. I’m in an undertow of the past. It is as though I am taking in for the first time that I have lost Vicky too.”
“Yes, I can see how it is. I can only say, do not hold back on grief. You’ve been so brave. Maybe now you have to let yourself grieve, Harriet.”
“As long as Patapouf was here, Vicky was here too, in some way. I don’t know how to handle everything alone.”
“Don’t even try for a while. Andrew will help, and I’ll help.”
“But you have enough trouble, Joe.”
“I need someone I can help. With Eddie it is proving hard. And, by the way, I must thank you for sending us Andrew. He and Eddie are playing chess now. He seems eager to do what he can. He offered to come over and be with Eddie when I have to be away for late hours.”