by Lee Lynch
Would she feel this way about any girl she lived with? Edie? No, she would be nice to wake up next to, and real nice to spend the day with. But she wouldn’t be anywhere nearly exciting as Pam at night. After Pam, she realized, Edie was boring. Who else? Mary? She didn’t find her attractive any more, though she saw why Jessie did. Mercedes? Well, she was a different story. She could live, breathe, and die next to Mercedes without ever being bored or disgusted or irritated. Life could never be anything but exciting with her. But — there was no Mercedes in her life. And there was Pam. She slipped out of bed to take a shower.
She mused as she took a shower. If she was lucky, Pam wouldn’t wake up while she left to buy the News and pick up breakfast. This was still her favorite part of living in the Village — walking the streets on a Sunday morning, free and easy, seeing kids from the bar who lived around the neighborhood. She was even beginning to know the shopkeepers. She no longer wanted to stay late at the bars, but rather get home, make love and wake up early so she could hit the streets and belong to a real daytime world. Be Frenchy Tonneau right out here in broad daylight, have a key to an apartment where she belonged.
If she could only get Mercedes out of her mind. Wouldn’t it be great if it were Mercedes, not Pam, who lived in this apartment. Mercedes whom she made love to. Mercedes whom she came home to at night. Mercedes with whom she walked the Sunday streets.
As if fleeing her thoughts, she ran down the steps and into the street. When she got home maybe Pam would be awake and cooking pancakes. Two things she couldn’t regret about Pam were sex and food. She wondered if Mercedes could cook, and banished her from her mind again. Instead of getting more involved with Pam as she had expected, she had become more obsessed with Mercedes, as if she were growing away from Pam. What would she do then? She couldn’t face going back to the Bronx. Her mother would be gone in a month and she had to give the landlord a decision. Maybe they could sublet. But what if the relationship with Pam ended? What would she do then? She couldn’t go on living with her. Now that she and Pam had moved to a larger apartment downstairs, she couldn’t afford the apartment by herself.
The Sunday morning walk chilled her. She headed home. At least in Pam’s arms she could forget her worries.
An upbeat Bob Dylan song was blasting on the stereo. Pam was in the shower singing along at the top of her lungs. For all Pam’s faults, she certainly knew how to enjoy life, and it was good to get home to her. Maybe everything would work out. Maybe she should take that promotion the A&P had offered when she requested a transfer. They needed a head cashier in the Village store. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be a head cashier, but the money was better. Of course she could handle the job, she told herself. The boss had wanted to promote her for years. But she hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. What if they found out she was a dyke? They might keep her on if she was just a cashier, but in a more important position, they might get rid of her.
She wasn’t going to worry anymore, she reminded herself, and poured orange juice, bright and frothy, in glasses for herself and Pam. She knocked at the bathroom door.
“Come on in!”
Pam’s smiling head came out from behind the shower curtains. “Great! Just what I needed. I have a hangover from mixing wine with Scotch.” She poured juice into her mouth, trickles of it escaping down her chin. “Good,” she breathed, and handed the glass back to Frenchy. “What are you going to do today?”
“I don’t know. How about you?”
“I forgot to tell you. Dorene called yesterday. She wants to show me some exhibit of African art up in Harlem. Want to come?”
She was stunned. Pam was going to spend time with her old lover? And she wanted her to come too? And Harlem? She thought for a moment. Maybe she’d see Mercedes up there...
“What do you think?”
“How come you’re seeing Dorene?”
Pam turned the shower off and emerged wrapped in towels. She believed she didn’t have to do laundry as often if she used a lot of towels at once. “Why not? We’ve been friends for years. No matter who else we’re lovers with.”
“You’re still lovers now?”
Pam frowned at Frenchy’s consternation. “I don’t mean actively, but you never know what’s going to happen. I mean between you and me. Me and her. Her and somebody else.”
“She going with somebody?”
“Some Spanish chick.”
Frenchy’s heart stopped. It couldn’t be Mercedes. It couldn’t. “You know her name?”
“The Spanish chick? Yeah, let me think.” She brushed her teeth. Frenchy had to wait till she was finished. “Something unusual. Long. Nereida, that’s it, Nereida. Why?”
“Thought it might be someone from the bar.”
“Come on. Help me get dressed.”
Frenchy trailed after her, confused. Were Pam and Dorene still lovers? Might Dorene know Mercedes? Was there a chance she’d see Mercedes if she went along today? She knew she wouldn’t be comfortable with Dorene. Especially with Dorene and Pam. They were both artsy and high class, she wouldn’t fit in. Maybe Nereida would know Mercedes. Would it be worth the discomfort? Ah, she was being stupid, these women wouldn’t know Mercedes. She was a street dyke like Frenchy.
“I think I’ll stay down here. Maybe clean house a little.”
“Sure, okay,” Pam said, distracted. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back, so go ahead and eat if I’m not here.” She was halfway to the door, slipping into her sandals. “Sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yes,” Frenchy said, returning Pam’s kiss.
“Ciao, lover. Don’t go running after any little chicks you see, Mama’ll be home soon’s she can be.”
The door closed behind her.
* * * * *
She tried to be cool walking to her apartment, but how do you walk butch with a shopping bag hanging off your arm and groceries towering over your head? At least, she thought, the place would be clean when she got home. Jessie and Mary were coming over, and Pam had promised to clean all day. After seeing Jessie and Mary’s house, Frenchy knew hers had to be spotless.
She struggled up the stairs to the apartment, wishing Pam would meet her on the stairs and help her — but maybe she was putting the finishing touches on the apartment.
The door was ajar; she pushed it open and stared between the two grocery bags. The house was a worse wreck than when she’d left that morning. Pam sat at her easel, back to Frenchy, painting. Frenchy counted to ten.
“Hi, lover,” called Pam. “Come see what I’ve painted for you. It’s my first erotic water color!” Two women on the canvas were making love.
“It’s very nice,” said Frenchy, putting the bags on the table.
“You don’t like it,” complained Pam.
In a low voice, Frenchy asked, “Did you forget Jessie and Mary are coming tonight?”
“Oh, I did!” she cried and became a whirlwind.
Within half an hour the house was relatively neat. In another hour it was relatively clean. Pam began to prepare dinner. Frenchy was exhausted. Instead of resting before the guests arrived, she had worked harder and faster than she had all day. She was still wearing the same bedraggled clothes. Pam had done wonders, and Frenchy wasn’t angry any more. She’d swallowed the anger when she learned how overcome Pam had been with the need to do her painting, so overcome she’d forgotten everything else. But she felt their relationship was now hopeless. She sat and stared at the painting, impressed with its bold lines, unembarrassed to see the acts Pam portrayed. Pam had asked her to pose sometime. It might be exciting, but damn it, she’d rather have a woman who cleaned once in a while instead of painting dirty pictures. She made herself a stiff drink and went to shower.
The shower helped. So did clean clothes. She put on Pam’s favorite record, Nashville Skyline. She never played her oldies, as Pam called them, because Pam didn’t like them. But they both liked some of Pam’s music. Pam didn’t play jazz, so Frenchy didn’t play the Shirelles. It was
fair, but she missed her music. She went up behind Pam in the kitchen and kissed the back of her neck. “The place looks great, lady.”
Pam turned. “I’m really sorry.” Her hands were covered with flour; she didn’t touch Frenchy. She looked truly contrite.
“I know you are. I’m sorry I got so mad before. I just think if we could maybe keep the place up all the time, then we wouldn’t have to go through this.” Frenchy was toying with Pam’s breasts.
Pam groaned quietly. “Keep that up and this quiche won’t get cooked.”
“What’s a quiche?”
“It’s like a meat pie, only with egg. We’re having crab-meat and peppers in it since that’s what we had in the house. It’ll work out, darling, honestly. There’s a groovy dessert in the oven already. If you just set the table, I can go change as soon as I finish the crust.”
“Okay,” Frenchy said, eyeing the sinkful of dishes. Maybe she’d get those out of the way before Jessie and Mary arrived. She was going to make this evening work. She mixed herself another drink and brought one to Pam.
When the buzzer sounded at 8:30 on the dot, they were ready and had even been sitting down for a few minutes to relax. Pam looked great, Frenchy thought, in her red and yellow kimono over the wide black pants and a black leotard top. She couldn’t resist touching Pam’s breasts once more before going to the door. Pam pulled her back and grabbed her at the crotch.
“I want you thinking about me tonight. All night,” she said.
Frenchy nodded, trying to act butch with a hand between her legs. She had regained her composure when she let Jessie and Mary in.
She knew immediately that they were not impressed. The music was wrong, the apartment was far from perfect, Pam was dressed too weird and she’d left the easel facing the door so that it was the first thing to strike anyone walking in. She could see Jessie and Mary try to avoid looking at it. She accepted a bottle of wine and took their coats.
“Nice pad,” said Jessie, obviously trying to impress Pam with the slang.
“I love your drapes,” said Mary, going to them and stepping back as she discovered they were bedspreads.
Frenchy said, “Someday we’re going to get real ones. If we ever have any money!”
They all laughed in commiseration.
“Here, have some cheese and crackers,” said Frenchy. “What are you drinking?”
Two drinks later, the quiche was on the table. Frenchy was tipsy, Pam red-faced and sweating from cooking. The apartment was stifling. No one had relaxed. Pam put some classical music on the stereo and Jessie and Mary looked at each other. But the quiche was a novelty and delicious, and soon Pam and Mary were exchanging recipes while Jessie and Frenchy talked about the old gang.
“Remember Donna? And her cousin Marie from the Island?” asked Jessie.
“Sure do,” said Frenchy, wondering if she would have been happier if she’d settled down with Donna back then. “The night you went with the cousin I broke up with Donna and brought out Edie.”
“Did you? That night? You Frenchman, you,” Jessie teased admiringly, a little high on the dinner wine. “What’d you do? Go to her place?”
“No, we made it on a bench somewhere. A subway stop I think.” Frenchy laughed.
“You know, Edie’s got that other chick, Mercedes, living with her.”
Frenchy laid her fork down. She stared at Jessie. Mercedes — at Edie’s? This was the last way she ever thought she’d connect with Mercedes again. “No,” she managed to say, unable to hide her shock.
“Not like that, man. She just lives there. Edie’s still going with that black girl.”
Still shaken by the news of Mercedes, she asked Jessie several more questions about her, trying to be cool by asking about Edie at the same time. But Jessie didn’t know much more.
“Man,” sighed Jessie, “those were the good old days. Life wasn’t complicated at all. Seems like there weren’t no bills to pay. No complications with girls except never enough of them. You just went out and had a good time. If you had the money you spent it. If you didn’t you made your cover drink last.”
“Now you don’t even get a drink for the cover!” Frenchy said, with effort pushing Mercedes to the back of her mind.
“Yeah, but you can have all the toilet paper you want!”
Frenchy was laughing too. “Remember? They used to hand it out, one piece at a time?”
“I used to hold it in so’s I wouldn’t have to wait in line.”
“Back then we could hold it!”
“Say, remember Kitty?” Jessie asked, serious. The other women were talking about embroidery now. “That real tall femme? Used to go with Beebo? Killed herself. She came in with this guy one night, all over him. Couple of weeks later, I heard she was dead.”
“Wow.”
“But there’s good news too. Remember Paulette? In the wheelchair? The bouncer used to carry her down the stairs.”
“Sure do. She was a sweetheart. I never knew how to act around her. I was always afraid I’d hurt her or something.”
“Well, somebody figured it out. Her and old Shirley Faye got married. Ceremony and all, in a church.”
“Shirley Faye? The softball player? She got herself a good butch then.”
“And Shirley Faye got herself a good woman.”
“What are you boys carrying on about over there?” asked Mary.
“Just the old days, the kids we know. What’s happening to them. Frenchy isn’t around as much anymore and she misses all the dirt.”
“It’s funny,” Mary said, “Jessie and me get to the bars just about every week and we live way out in College Point. You two are right here in the Village and hardly ever go.”
Frenchy was putting on a Judy Collins record. “Somehow, living down here, you see enough queers that you don’t need to go to the bar so much. You know?”
“I think so,” Jessie answered. “We miss a week of not seeing no gay people and I feel like I need a fix.”
Mary agreed. “Family and the people at work are nice, but it’s just not the same as your own.”
“I never used to feel that way,” said Pam, pouring more wine for everyone. “But since Frenchy moved in, I do more. I don’t care as much about seeing the old group I went to coffee houses with. They’re mostly guys and they don’t understand my work.”
Jessie and Mary looked embarrassed. “What kind of work do you do?” stammered Jessie.
“That kind of thing,” Pam said, pointing at the painting on the easel. “Though I’ve never done figures in water color before.”
Jessie blushed, looking at it, and Mary wouldn’t look at all.
“I didn’t understand what Pam was trying to do at first,” said Frenchy, trying to help her friends’ embarrassment. “And I’m not sure I do now. But as Pam says, the straights have their great artists always doing pictures of lovers, why shouldn’t we? I got to agree with that even though sometimes I still have trouble looking at them.”
Jessie was peering nearsightedly at the painting. She looked at Mary. “I guess it’s kind of nice,” she said.
“You couldn’t put it on your wall, though, could you?” asked Mary.
“What if I gave it to you,” Pam said. “Where would you put it?”
“A real painting? By a lesbian?”
“By me. Artist and lesbian.” Pam reached for Frenchy’s hand over the table.
“I’d put it right over the couch,” said Jessie staunchly.
“You wouldn’t!” Mary objected.
“Yes I would. Who comes to our house who doesn’t know we’re lovers? Look, we go to your sister’s house and there’s that little statue of the two naked people kissing. And the dirty cartoons your other sister has in her bathroom downstairs. I don’t even like looking at them. Why not put something of our own up?”
“Because it’s, you know, what we do.”
“You think they don’t know what we do? Talk about it? Let’s show them. Let them get more used to the i
dea. Let it be in the open more. Then it won’t look like we’re ashamed or got something to hide. Besides, I would like to have a picture of two women doing it to look at. Makes me feel sexy.”
Pam laughed. “Right on! I think that’s great. Those are some of the things I want to do with my work!”
“Maybe you have something there,” admitted Mary. “Do you have any more?”
“Let’s go in the living room and I’ll show you.”
“I’ll clear the table,” Frenchy offered.
“You will?” asked Jessie, astonished.
Frenchy hitched up her pants and began stacking dishes. “Sure,” she said, “why let a lady do all the dirty work?”
Jessie looked like she was thinking about that one as the three went to huddle over a stack of Pam’s drawings. Within a few minutes Frenchy could hear little murmurs of enthusiasm from the group. “Oh, I like that!” Mary exclaimed more than once. “Hey, we never tried that!” Jessie guffawed at one point. Frenchy was so proud of Pam she started right in doing the dishes, sleeves rolled up to show the little muscles of her upper arm. It had been a good idea to ask friends over. Maybe it would work out with Pam after all.
Chapter 6
Lavender Skies
Spring, 1967
Listen, I don’t kid myself anymore. I have it good now: a career, a home where I can be myself, a kid who makes my life better. But I’m still me. And it can all disappear, just like that. One little thing and Humpty Dumpty falls off her wall. I’m being careful with myself. I’ve got too much to lose.
Still, I’m proud of what I’ve done. See how much better I write now? I have some education.
With Esther and Edie’s help I sat down and looked at the catalogues. I liked science in high school and I knew I wanted to help people, and I wanted to make decent money in a job that would be around for a while. And I like nuclear medicine, I really do. Going into the hospital every day, wearing a white coat. I especially like giving therapy. People who are as miserable in their bodies as I once was in my mind - I can help them feel better, some of them. Others -it can be so sad.