by Lee Lynch
“You’re sick.”
“No way. I’d be sick if I tried to be something I’m not. I’m tired of that kind of living.”
“You’re unnatural. God will punish you.”
“Seems like somebody is punishing me, making me talk to such a dumb chick.”
They walked in silence for a while, Frenchy kicking roughly at some stones while Marian averted her tear-stained face. Maybe it would pour rain, thought Frenchy, and they could part. She could give up. She glared quickly at her friend and saw she’d at least stopped crying.
“Marian, if I wasn’t gay I wouldn’t be me. And you liked me.”
“You tricked me.”
“I never pretended to be straight. You knew I didn’t go out with boys. You knew I moved to Greenwich Village.”
Marian began to cry again and pushed Frenchy away. It did begin to rain and Frenchy stood under the downpour. She followed as Marian began to walk.
“I never said I wanted you to go to bed with me,” she called, “I just wanted you to understand.”
Marian’s blonde hair was soaked and hung limply toward her shoulders, the curl stretched out of it. The colors in Frenchy’s jacket grew even brighter in the darkness. Frenchy was surprised at her own patience, her fortitude. They had walked in a circle that brought them back to the animals. Marian stopped in the sheltering overhang of a cage. Frenchy stood outside in the rain.
“You’d think I was one of them — those tigers,” Frenchy said, throwing a wet hand in their direction. “You’d think if they let me out I’d devour you. You’d think you wanted me in there.”
Head lowered, Marian stood quietly. Frenchy felt that a struggle was being fought in Marian, and hoped some part of Marian wanted to listen to her. She stared at the woman she once found so attractive who now stood there, her charm washed away as if by the rain.
Suddenly Marian shrugged. Frenchy’s heart leapt with hope.
“It’s where you and your kind belong,” spat Marian, and turned and walked toward the exit from the park.
Frenchy felt beaten. She walked to the rail outside a cage and gazed at the splendid animal inside. Who judged that either of them should belong in a cage, she wondered. The tiger certainly disagreed about her fate, and dreamed of escape. But here, in the world of the judges, she was safer in a cage. They would kill her uncaged. From indoors came another tiger, another brightly colored, stubbornly warring beast who paced briefly, then growled menacingly at Frenchy before collapsing heavily against her companion. Frenchy was glad, if they had to live caged, that they at least had each other.
It was still pouring rain when she left the subway and she arrived at Pam’s place drenched and sneezing, near tears. Pam took her in and wrapped her in a huge pink towel, gently taking her clothes off under it. Too dulled by emotional and physical fatigue to care about anything but warmth and comfort, she gladly gave up her key so that Dorene could get her some dry clothes, nor did she mind when it was bathrobe and pajamas. But after a bowl of soup, some coffee and a piece of homemade cake, and one too many isn’t-she-adorables, she shrugged Pam off.
“She’s feeling better now,” Pam teased, and Frenchy had to smile.
Pam picked up her latest drawing. “What do you think of this, Frenchy?”
She looked silently at the two women in the drawing, one dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the other naked in her arms. Both had short hair, but the one in clothing was slightly more dominant. Frenchy smiled. “It’s sexy,” she admitted, glancing shyly at Pam.
Pam looked very pleased. “Now,” she said, “are you going to tell us what happened? Or are we just a repair shop, here to put Frenchy Tonneau together again?”
Frenchy looked at her old lover and at Dorene, who had been working with two pieces of clay, and held both up to show her: halves of an egg.
“I told Marian I’m gay. She ran from me.” Frenchy began to pace as she spoke, wrapping her robe more tightly around her, feeling silly marching around in pajamas, yet comfortable. “I felt like it was hanging over my head with enough people. Like my family. At least I could tell her. Shit,” Frenchy said, whirling on them in disgust, “at least my family wouldn’t of run away. I don’t think.”
“It happened to me once like that, too,” said Dorene, “and it may not be over for you.” Dorene put the clay egg down, now intact, but with the shadow of a crack showing. “Mine wasn’t. It was my sister, Vera. I was seventeen, she was eighteen. I’d just come out and I was all excited, here I’d found the love of my life. We were going to live together in Greenwich Village and be rich and famous and live happily ever after. I was so full of it all, I was busting to tell someone. Vera got it. She was engaged and as sure and full of her life as I was. After I told her she stopped talking to me just like that.” She picked up her egg and crushed it with her hand. “Nobody noticed, though. We weren’t home much, either of us, and they were all excited about her wedding. I went to the damn wedding.”
The clay began to resemble a tiered wedding cake. “Then it was just me at home. Vera moved off Long Island.” She crushed the cake as she had the egg and began again. “Till she came home with a broken nose. She needed to talk to someone then. Do-rene understood. Sistah Do-rene was all sympathy. I helped her get her straight self together again, get her divorce and, finally, get her married again. This time to a better guy. So far.” Her hands were still. “But she never ran from me again, Frenchy. We’re better sisters now than we ever were. She learned it wasn’t so important what I was as what I had inside me. She came back.”
“So you think I ought to just sit on it?” Frenchy asked.
“It worked for me,” Dorene advised.
“Why don’t you stay with us? I’ll make you dinner,” Pam said.
“No, I’m tired. I got to go upstairs. Thanks,” she said, rising and gathering her clothes. “Thanks for everything. I feel better. You’re right, Dorene. I should just sit on the Marian thing. If she gets over it she’ll call. Otherwise I don’t have time for her.”
“You stay warm,” said Pam, straightening the collar on Frenchy’s robe.
Chapter 10
Fire Island
Summer, 1967
Summer came, dripping moist heat. Instead of being anxious about going to Fire Island Frenchy looked forward to getting away from the heat for a day.
Her life seemed to hang as heavily about her as the still air. She was very aware of her age, and felt as if her life was standing still and would do so until she died. Her days were a comfortable round of work and the bars, broken by frequent explorations of the City from the base of her tiny perch in Greenwich Village. Girls didn’t interest her except as friends: she still wanted none in her bed. Yet she was bothered by desire; her dreams were filled with the pleasures Pam had shown her. She knew she could go to Pam and Dorene for sex. But even if she could overcome her aversion to a threesome, she knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Nor did she want just Pam. She would hate herself, even if Dorene said she didn’t mind. They might think it was okay with them, but she knew better. It had to bother anyone deep down inside.
A few days before the picnic Lydia called.
“I’m calling about Saturday. Are you still coming?”
“Sure thing, kid,” Frenchy assured her, reaching for a cigarette, but deciding she was too hot to smoke. “I got the day off and everything.”
“Great. Listen, Esther will be there! Remember I told you she ran away? She’s coming back tonight!”
“That was some long vacation.”
“Remember how nobody knew where she was and we were scared she ran off with someone else? It turned out she left a note for Edie on her bed! Edie couldn’t bear to go in Esther’s room, but I finally went in there,” Lydia said proudly, “and there was the note.”
“So where did she go?”
“Home to North Carolina. She stayed with her mother and father, saw her old friends and stuff. She’s all fired up about civil rights down there and might go back to work o
n it.”
“And leave Edie again?”
“They don’t know how to work it out yet, but boy is Edie glad to know Esther still wants to be with her. And so am I.”
Frenchy realized her depression had lifted. Maybe this was what she needed, to see people she cared about. Her solitude might have some purpose if she came out of it appreciating her friends more. “So who else will be there?”
“Um. Me. Edie and Esther. Jessie, Mary, Beebo. She came over here once. She’s a lot of fun too. Did you know she used to play drums?”
“Beebo? Can she see to play them through the dark shades?” Frenchy laughed. It would be good to see old Beebo again.
Lydia giggled with her. “I guess so. She plays a good drum. Besides, I asked her.” She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “You can’t tell this to anybody, okay? She doesn’t want anybody to know, even my mother. But you’re different.”
Frenchy felt greatly complimented. “What?”
“Beebo wears the shades because something’s wrong with her eyes. She might go blind, she thinks.”
Oh, Beebo, Frenchy groaned inwardly. “Why doesn’t she want us to know?”
“I guess she thinks you won’t like her.”
All alone with that, Frenchy thought. We’re so alone inside ourselves. “Okay. I won’t say nothing, but you tell her to tell her friends.”
Lydia continued with her list of who was going. She paused, briefly, then added, “And of course, my mother.”
Frenchy stubbed out her cigarette. It was for sure then. She’d thought Mercedes might chicken out. Half-hoped she would. “What are you guys bringing?” she asked, steadying her voice.
“Edie said to tell you to just bring you.”
“Some prize,” muttered Frenchy. “How about beer or something?”
“I don’t know, wait.” Lydia covered the phone. “You can bring some if you want, but we’re going by car, we can carry more. Ma says we’ll get there around ten.” Lydia laughed into the phone. “Edie said we’ll hang my teddy bear from the beach umbrella so you can find us!”
As she finished dressing, Frenchy pushed Saturday to the back of her mind. She knew Beebo was at the bar, getting quietly high, as she did every night. As long as she had to pretend to know nothing about Beebo’s problem, she couldn’t do much, but she could at least be something more than a drinking partner. She could be a better friend. Maybe Beebo would like to come over to her place and listen to old records some night.
It was still hot when she reached the street, but night had come. Why hadn’t she ever thought of asking the gang up to her place? The bars were a habit she might want to cut down on. But she couldn’t worry about that now; her mind was on getting to Beebo.
* * * * *
Saturday came, sunny and clear. Jessie had parked the car by the ferry dock and the group spilled out of it like so many clowns at a circus, arms full of supplies. They walked to the ferry overladen and laughing and glad to be among so many other gay people. They staked a corner of the boat for themselves and piled up their goods like immigrants from a straight city.
Only Mercedes moved away from the group. She found a sheltered spot toward the front of the boat, stretched out her legs in the sun and half-dozed, her mind caught in anticipation of seeing Frenchy again. Fantasies took her over.
A moment before the ferry departed, a small figure in jeans and a brightly colored embroidered jacket ran on, clutching a cooler and gym bag. She found a seat in the back of the boat between a gay male couple and some straights who were looking around the boat with excited curiosity. Frenchy half-dozed beside them, hardly aware of anything but the warming sun and the sea-scent enveloping her. It occurred to her that Edie’s crowd might be on this boat, but she wasn’t yet ready to see them.
She allowed a sense of Mercedes’ nearness to grow in her, as if the voyage out were a voyage to her. She relaxed, and indulged herself in daydreams of Mercedes.
* * * * *
We’re sitting across from each other in the living room at Edie’s. Edie and Esther are in the kitchen making dinner. We’re making the kind of talk you can when your mind isn’t on it. I try not to look at Frenchy too much ‘cause I can’t hide how turned on I am. She doesn’t look at me either. My voice is getting gravelly like it does when I make love. Maybe she remembers this from the bar where she tried to make me. Whatever the reason, she looks up full at me. The stereo’s on; but I don’t care what’s playing. I can’t look away from Frenchy anymore. We stand up and move together somehow. We’re facing each other, so close I can smell the scotch she’s been drinking, so much more appealing than Candy’s sweet rum. It’s intoxicating.
We touch lips, almost not touching. Move away, back quick. The feel of the soft special flesh of her lips melts me. My knees are weak, I reach out for her, I’m afraid to touch her. We catch hands, begin to move our fingers. I slide mine up the outside edges of her hands. She curls her fingers against my palms and moves them back and forth. I feel myself dripping. We stand like this, kissing lightly, a long, long time, knowing Edie and Esther were standing in the kitchen doorway a couple of times, then seeing them make out in the doorway until we smelled food burning. A cry, giggles, noise and pots and pans.
We break away, smiling, still touching hands. Frenchy’s eyes are shining, glazed with passion and happiness. My high cheekbones feel like they’re even higher in my face and my eyes are little slits, closed by our slow burning. We sit together on the couch, not touching at all, staring at each other. It’s going to be okay, I think, and feel my face rearrange itself back to normal.
* * * * *
Birds flying. Their wings, thousands of them, beating, flapping, making a scary noise. The ground rumbling. Mercedes’ lips like a flower opening under mine.
I stand taller, wanting to take charge. Remember she doesn’t like that and relax into myself again. Funny, when I do that I get lost in her lips. Smooth, velvet, full, then suddenly wet, searching for me, wetting me. I open mine just a little. We balance our whole lives against each others’ lips, she leaning on me, me on her, both away, both together. I feel Edie in the doorway behind us. I should stop, she’ll see me, short and helpless against how I feel about Mercedes. I hear kissing sounds and know Edie’s not interested.
Hands like baby birds in a nest, moving against each other. Her little hands around mine. Moving up and down till I can’t keep mine still. Touching her palms like they’re someplace else, like I’m making love to her. Ooh, I can’t stop and her lips want more and more. I move my lips side to side, against hers.
Flaming lips, eyes, hands. Her breath hot, hot, hot in my mouth. The light bright, so bright through my closed lids I’ll never be able to see the same again. The smell of burning all around us. I don’t care if we turn to cinders that blow away together. Mercedes.
She pulls back, smiling. I realize Edie burnt something making out with Esther. The house is filled with all our heat. I smile back at Mercedes, almost not able to see her, she’s such a dark, blurred shape in the brightness that fills my eyes.
* * * * *
Frenchy, naked, unbuttons my shirt slowly. My breasts feel all of a sudden important, swollen out of their own size. I want to be crazy sexy. I want to shimmy them against Frenchy’s hands. When we get my pants off I want her to pick me up so I can wind my legs around her hips and press myself, all open, against her. I wish our two wet parts could meet fully, rub against each other. She makes me feel the way the books say: abandoned.
I reach between her legs. She jumps when I touch her. Okay, Mercedes, I tell myself, cool off. This girl needs help. Her eyes are closed, her face looks like she’s in pain. “Frenchy, you want me to stop?” “No,” she says. “If this is what I got to do to get you, I’ll do it.”
I feel so guilty, making her do it. It’s for her own good, goddamnit. But how am I going to turn her on when she doesn’t want me to? I rub my breasts against her and her face relaxes a little. “Frenchy, Frenchy, I want you,” I g
roan.
She asks, her eyes wide open, “You do?” “Don’t you believe me?” “It’s hard to.” “Oh, I do, I do, baby,” I say and reach down to stroke her again. She’s damp. I feel like I just came. A little bit of dampness on this girl is more exciting than anything I’ve ever had done to me. I would do anything, I thought, to make her wetter. I could give her the wetness of my mouth. The thought turns me on even more. How I want her to touch me. But no, I was going to lick this. I giggle to myself, thinking I really am. I feel terribly nervous, kissing all down her flat little body, afraid she’ll stop me. She has a ridge of black curly hair from her belly button down, and I get this warm thrill all through me to know something so intimate about her. I love her, love her, love her, and here I am, my lips kissing her, my tongue wetting her, my hand fighting to get in on the action too. She’s wet and slippery and I can tell she’s liking it because there’s more moisture than just from my mouth and it’s all Frenchy and me mixed up together. I’m dizzy moving my mouth around on her.
Her hips move. I feel like singing the national anthem. I lift my face to see her face and I can’t because she follows me up, seeking my mouth with her body. Dear Frenchy, I thought. You’re a woman, all woman and, after this, all mine.
* * * * *
I lie on the bed thinking, Okay, I’m scared. I admit it.
I feel like Mercedes is going to torture me, not make love to me. She can do anything she wants to me now with my clothes off. It’s like that first scary time with Pam. I take a deep breath, wanting a cigarette.
I picture the beach at the Cape. The water is clear and endless. All around me are beautiful girls in bikinis, their bodies glowing in the sun, shiny with suntan lotion, their breasts pushing out of their halters, their hips curved inside their brief pants like a smooth mystery I want to touch.
Mercedes touches between my legs and I snap out of it. Did I want to stop, she says. No, I thought, but I don’t say that. I have my butch pride. She gets busy with her mouth, then rubbing those round breasts all over me. Some muscles in my thigh begin to tighten, like they did when Pam used to do this to me — like bits of fire darting in my thighs.