“It took twelve years, huh?” Harper’s flip words barely came out as her chest caved in.
Grace still had that way. After all the years.
“We’ll see,” Grace said, throwing the cigarette into the fire and taking a step closer. “When I get there, I’ll let you know.”
Harper sensed the energy building, saw it coming in slow motion even though she wasn’t looking—Grace’s knees bending as she sat down, her hand coming to Harper’s neck, her face getting closer.
When their lips came together, mixed with cigarette smoke, Grace tasted pure and soft, unlike anything she’d known before or since their first kiss in Amsterdam. Just like old times. Primal, organic, earth fucking shattering.
For the moment, nothing else mattered—not even Alex—
and Harper let herself go, imagining they were drifting in a coral sea, just her and Grace. The sun was warm as they worked their way against the side of the boat, the wall of the fire pit.
Harper wanted to peel off Grace’s skin and wrap it around her naked body.
As Harper worked her hands into Grace’s coat, the heat gave
her chills; they covered her skin. Grace’s topography, shoulders and arms and face as familiar as her own.
Grabbing her, Harper pulled Grace in forcefully as she straddled her on the fence.
Grace.
My Grace, Harper thought.
A secret I’d kept from Alex.
The only one.
Her tongue was so familiar, its strokes and texture. Harper had imagined it so many times, dreamt of it when she made love to other women.
With the rising moon, Harper dissolved into a meditation of Grace—her knowing fingertips, the velvet skin behind her ear, the way her tongue fit into Harper’s belly button.
As the water moved farther from the house, Harper could feel her integrity slipping out with the tide. She was aware. It was the price she was willing to pay.
Time passed—unclear how much—before Harper pushed Grace away.
“I can’t do this,” Harper said, suddenly mortified, overcome with a sobering strike of reason. She wiped her mouth. “This can’t happen.”
But it was too late.
It had.
And as she stepped back and took in the full scene, she saw Alex standing in the kitchen window, her outline revealed by the dim light above the stove.
She was in her black robe. The one Harper gave her for Valentine’s Day.
Seeing Alex too, Grace let go of Harper’s hand and took off for the ocean. Harper watched her sprint down the sandy steps until she was out of sight.
And then fearfully, Harper looked back at the house.
Alex was gone.
Standing on the deck, adultery on her fingers, Harper had an enormous decision to make. Should she run after Grace and take her again into her arms? It was, after all, what she’d wanted all along.
Or did she face the wrath of her girlfriend, whose semblance of love and trust she’d just destroyed?
She went after Alex.
She was too late. By the time she got inside, their car keys were gone, so was their Land Rover. Harper rushed out front, but only saw taillights in the misty distance.
The house was quiet when Harper came back in, the monotonous rhythm of the peaceful waves crashing through the French doors, an acute juxtaposition. She sat down with the phone and held it tight against her chest. What had she done?
Harper tried Alex’s cell before taking the beach car, a vintage VW van covered by a tarp in the garage, to try and find her. It had been her mom’s and she barely got it started.
Slowly, the engine puttering, Harper drove around looking in dark parking lots and at the public beach. She stopped at the corner convenience store, the bars that were still open. The police station even, but there was no sign of Alex, or of Grace.
When Harper got home, Grace’s car was still parked in the driveway and the house was still quiet, nothing touched. Juliet and Sabrina were asleep, unaware of the demolition outside their door. They’d know soon enough.
Drunk and exhausted, Harper tried to stay awake on the couch until one of them, if not both, came back.
Neither of them did.
“Guilty”
Barbra Streisand & Barry Gibb
The next morning, Harper’s pounding head rivaled the scathing memories. Her pain only worsened when she opened her eyes. The smashed pack of cigarettes on the coffee table next to the phone. The nearly empty bottle of scotch. The wadded tissues.
Her terrible hangover was compounded by how she woke—
Juliet, fully dressed, shook her with spitting accusation.
“What happened last night?” she demanded.
“What?” Harper asked, blurry-eyed.
“How could you do that to Alex?” Juliet held her car keys.
Sabrina was behind her. “Get up.” They’d already gathered their things. “We need to go.”
The throbbing blood pressure started in Harper’s forehead, and then moved to her arms. She even felt the beat in her toes.
Inside Harper, everything hurt. Most poignantly her heart, the control center—the current command post. One which bitterly betrayed her the night before.
“Alex is moving out,” Juliet said.
Grace had taken off sometime in the night; her convertible was gone when Juliet—with Sabrina and Harper in tow—backed out of the driveway.
Confined in the car as they were, tension was thick.
“How could this happen?” Juliet questioned, as if Harper wasn’t deep enough in her own anguish.
She did her best to pull together a response. “There’s just so much,” she bemoaned, “you don’t know.”
Silently, staring at the farms burning past the window, Harper wondered what she’d say to Alex. She wasn’t ready to lose her. They’d finally built a life together of which Harper was proud. Beyond the echoes of regret, Harper couldn’t help but wonder about Grace and where she was at, both physically and emotionally.
Was she sorry?
Did she regret what she’d said?
What they’d done?
When Juliet pulled up to the house, Alex’s moving truck was already half-full.
Harper dreaded going inside.
After letting Quincy into the backyard, Harper entered through the side door. In the office, Alex’s guitars were packed up next to her music books, which were in three cascading piles.
The Chihuly vase Harper gave her for their anniversary was on the desk with her matchbook collection loaded inside, ready to go. She’d been packing all night.
Standing in the hallway, Harper listened carefully for Alex’s movement in the old house, the cracks of the wood floor, squeaking closet doors. She paid close attention, but there was nothing. Not a creak. Harper climbed the stairs to their bedroom, each step louder than the next. Harper didn’t call Alex’s name.
She knew she’d find her, and as Harper got closer to the top, she knew where it would be.
In the attic, Alex was kneeling in front of Harper’s antique hope chest surrounded by pictures of Grace, letters and random
0
things Harper kept through the years, things from their past Harper had locked up for her own good, and, so she thought, for Alex’s, too.
The homemade Christmas stocking Harper had found in the dumpster, as well as that ratty piece of a piñata and the flowerless stems were scattered amongst Harper’s journals, the hundreds of pages that helped Harper get through her last few months at U
of A. In the strewn items was Harper’s bloody journal from the mountain, the brown drops on the cover almost indiscernible.
As Harper stepped closer, she saw a picture of her and Grace sticking out from a stack of warped 45s. They were at Ernie’s and Harper was holding a pool stick, a make-believe microphone, with her arm around Grace—they stood in front of the jukebox, its glowing edges behind them, bright and curvaceous. The lens captured more than the moment, but also the
stale smoke, the blue pool chalk, the music blaring through the speakers. Grace’s lips brushing Harper’s neck.
Another picture, halfway covered by a broken ukulele, was of Grace and Harper in Europe standing in the middle of Dam Square, stoned out of their minds. Both twenty, they were like children wrapped around each other. Cast under a spell. Past the point of return.
With her back to Harper, Alex spoke first.
“I saw her at the gallery,” she said, inspecting a photo of Grace and Dean on his LA balcony, a ring of sweat at his armpit.
Harper’s knees locked.
“I wondered who she was. When I came back to get my wallet I’d left behind, I saw you talking on the roof deck.”
In the picture, Grace was wearing a haltered sundress, her hair feathered.
“Now I know,” Alex said, almost too quiet for Harper to hear.
Feeling weak, Harper sat down on a box of sporting equipment near the door.
“I’m such a fool,” Alex said.
“I’m the fool,” Harper corrected.
“How could I have been so blind?” Alex asked.
“Alex.”
She set the photos down and covered her face. “I had no idea.”
“Alex,” Harper said, touching her shoulder.
“DON’T.”
“I’m sorry,” Harper said, getting weepy. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Well, you did…you fucking did. I mean, how could you hide her from me? Look at this.” Alex waved her hand over the things she’d unloaded. “I never even knew you.”
“I thought if I ignored her memory, it would go away.”
Alex shook her head.
“I love you,” Harper said, reaching for Alex again.
“How can you keep lying?”
“I’m not lying. I love you.”
“Stop!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” she asked. “For what part? For kissing her? Is that it? You’re sorry for kissing her?”
Alex picked up a mini Phoenix Suns basketball and threw it against the wall.
“Or maybe you’ve already fucked her. And you’re sorry for that?”
Silently, Harper watched the ball bounce off the lath and plaster in steady measure.
“Have you?”
“Of course not.”
“Maybe you’re just sorry for allowing me to fall in love with you then? Or you’re sorry for being such a coward?”
Harper dropped her head.
“Which part, Harper? I wanna know.”
“All of it.”
Alex grabbed the edge of the chest and pulled her body up. “At least it makes sense now.” She looked at Harper, her eyes swollen, inflamed. “I finally know it’s not me that’s the problem.”
“Whatever I can do to make this right, I’ll do it,” Harper cried. “I’m begging you.”
“You’ve already done enough.”
“I don’t want to be with Grace. What happened between us
was a long time ago. Last night was a terrible mistake. We were drunk.”
“Do you really believe that?” Alex asked, getting right in Harper’s face. “If you do, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Standing in the attic, Harper kept her head down, at a loss.
They both knew Alex was right.
“What a waste. I should’ve left you a long time ago,” Alex said, walking out of the room.
Harper helped her load the big pieces of furniture, those which Alex had brought into the relationship and some they’d purchased together. She also taped up many of the boxes and did what she could to help.
Her attempts to convince either of them she was over Grace had been futile.
By late afternoon, after an awkwardly cold goodbye at the curb, Alex left Harper standing on the sidewalk in a daze.
“I Just Fall In Love Again”
Anne Murray
It was a mean night alone for Harper. As the evening crawled along, the ramifications of her choices became more of a reality.
Before dawn, she got up and walked the house, surveying the scene. Except for dust bunnies, a single striped chair and a leather ottoman were all that was left in the living room. A box of tablecloths on the dining room table.
It was a disaster.
Their home.
Her life.
Harper returned to Seasmoke the next day, and as usual, the beach house wasn’t locked; it never was. She had accidentally left the back door wide open when she’d hurried out with Juliet and Sabrina. Sand had blown inside and a small crab had taken residence in one of her clogs.
Bringing along some canvases and tempura paints, Harper planned on burying herself in art, as it always calmed her.
She’d also packed an Andrew Wyeth book from which to draw inspiration.
She lit a fire and then set up her easel, which had been Ana’s, by the window. A clear view of Haystack Rock was in the distance.
Harper covered three canvases before she washed her brushes. Her fingers grew tired quickly; it had been some time since she’d painted. A bath followed.
While she filled the tub, an evening routine she’d also let slide after coupling with Alex, she dug Grace’s phone number out of her purse. She opened it, stared at the numbers, and then put it back.
She couldn’t.
She’d promised herself.
Deep in the bubbles, Harper tried to relax, but the memories were rousing eruptions in her mind. The kiss. The look in Alex’s eyes. Grace running down the stairs. She was an idiot, driven by madness. Her mournful loneliness was well-deserved, she thought. But still, despite her internal badgering, she wanted to see Grace again more than anything else in the world.
Leaning back in the tub, Harper closed her eyes. She didn’t know when or if she’d ever see Grace again. She didn’t know how long it would take for Grace to get in touch, or if she would.
And she wondered if Alex really was gone for good. They’d hit rough patches before. But this damage seemed permanent.
It was.
She was certain.
Harper painted another scene the following morning.
Pulling on her emotions, she used various shades of blue to capture a storm overcoming a small town. She tried throwing in the perspective of changing seasons: fall leaves barely hanging on; piles of snow along the dirt road and a snowman in front of a dilapidated barn.
When she finished, she grabbed her car keys and headed out.
Not bothering to call, Harper drove the short distance to where, coincidentally, Ruthie and her partner, Frieda, were living, a town about ten miles south on Highway 101. Ruthie said she was
always welcome and she knew they’d both be home; they hardly left the house anymore.
Frieda answered wearing her standard cottons. Always in the same or a similar outfit, she must’ve had twenty different sets, some pants, some shorts. Frieda, too, had been painting; a smudge of orange was smeared across her forearm. That day, her white hair was as wild as ever, Einstein-ish. Of German descent, she was a bulky woman of seventy-five with hands that amazed Harper by their girth and brawn.
Their cats, Tom and Jerry, greeted Harper at the front door, doing figure eights around her legs as she chatted with Frieda.
“Oh my goodness, Ruth’s going to be so excited,” Frieda said, looking behind her.
Harper could hear Ruthie approaching, the rubber end of her cane squeaking against the floor. “Who is it, Frie,” she yelled.
When Ruthie finally got to the door, she let out a small yelp.
“Baby girl! I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, joyfully, and then suddenly stern. “Where have you been? It’s been months.”
“I’m sorry. Just busy.”
“Yeah yeah. Get in here.” Ruthie said, lifting her chin and putting her arm around Harper.
The same year Harper’s parents bought their home on the coast, Ruthie and her long-time partner had also retired to the beach at Manz
anita, another quaint beach town. She and Frieda had been together for twenty-five years even though the intimacy had long since dried up. No longer lovers, Ruthie explained, they still cared for each other and enjoyed the companionship.
“We’re all we have,” Ruthie once said.
A woman of few words, Frieda joined them for lunch—a mix of cheeses, salami and fruit—but left Harper and Ruthie alone afterward.
“Something’s going on,” Ruthie said. “What’s up?”
“Let’s talk about your hip first,” Harper said. “It hasn’t gotten any better?”
“Certain days are worse than others. Doc wants to replace this one too,”—she slapped her leg—“Can you believe it? It took me almost a year to bounce back from the other one… Ah well.”
“That’s what running twenty miles a week your whole life will get you—bad hips. I’ll be right behind you in line for new knees,” Harper reasoned.
“You sound just like Frie…I don’t want to talk about me. We could go on forever about what aches. What I want to know is what’s wrong with you.”
“How do you know me so well?” Harper asked.
“We’re soul mates, you and me. And, you only come around when you need to talk.”
“That’s not true.”
Ruthie flashed a smile. They both knew it was.
“I’ll try and be better.”
“Good. Now what’s going on?”
“God, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Oh dear. Is it Alex?”
“Yes.” Pausing, Harper envisioned the moving truck pulling away. “And,”—she took a big breath—“it’s Grace. She’s back.”
“Grace?” Ruthie paused. “Grace, Grace?”
“Grace Grace.”
“Jesus.”
“Yep. That’s pretty much what I said.”
“How did she find you?”
“Remember when I ran into her mom?”
“At the cemetery?”
Jukebox Page 22