I aimed the shorn Sampson through the sliding glass doors. I had discovered her weakness, without a doubt, but there was absolutely no triumphant joy in it. It made me need to look more at myself than at her—at the part of me that wanted so to defeat her. But, her weakness was also her strength. It was a connection to someone, and in that instant, I understood the paradox.
I made her sit down on the step so her back was to Holly, and then I got us both a cigarette from my pack on the porch's end table. I lit her cigarette and then mine. We sat in silence, side by side, and I had a hard time trying to fathom where she was in the world, if she was there at all. It suddenly dawned on me that pulling a jumper back from the ledge might have proven easier than trying to pull her back from the edge of herself. She had shown a different side of herself—her vulnerabilities—to others, not just to Holly as was customary. I wasn't sure how she would think of me now. Would we be closer? Awkwardly more distant? For some strange reason, I thought back to our Murder Mystery Weekend and to the guilt I had for ‘killing’ her. That was as scripted as this, but this time I was the scriptwriter.
We continued to sit in silence, and the discomfort in it eventually dissipated. Now, peace ruled.
Claudia and Holly eventually got my attention and with it my acknowledgement that the massage session was over.
"They're done, Laura,” I said. “We can go back in now. Come on. Holly's waiting for you."
She smiled until it slowly turned into a beam. She looked at me and most assuredly asked without questioning,
“Holly whipped, huh?"
"Holly whipped,” I agreed, returning the smile. “More power to ya."
She slid her arm around my shoulder, and with geisha strides, we made our way back into the house, into the open arms of the ones we loved.
Everyone sat around on the living room floor patiently waiting her turn in the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed. The mood had changed. The usual laughter was very low key. Pensive maybe. Had we all learned something? Would we all pull our partner a little bit closer?
Finally, it was Ginny who lost patience with the waiting. “For gosh sakes!” she said. “Who is holding up the line?"
Alison looked around and surmised, “Holly and Laura."
Faster than even the thought could reach the tongue, all of us yelled, “Dressing room!” at the top of our lungs.
The boisterous laughter returned full tilt.
Kris yelled down the hall, “Laura McCallister, come out with your hands up!"
We waited, expecting silence or a few Oh-Gods to make us giggle like schoolgirls. Instead, the door slowly opened, and Laura peered around the corner, toothbrush in mouth. Through the froth of toothpaste and a grin, she asked, “Put my hands upwhere?"
It wasn't what we expected, but nonetheless, the giggling commenced. Two minutes later, they both emerged.
The once again puffed-up Laura did her little peacock dance down the hall. She entered the living room and looked at each of us, knowing exactly what we were thinking.
"Wouldn't you all like to know?” she bantered. “You had your chance, ladies."
Holly pushed her through the throng, all the while shaking her head at us and rolling her eyes. To this day, I remain unsure if she was denying that anything had happened in their makeshift dressing room or if she was merely shaking her head in disbelief at the audacious ledge walker.
Chapter 3
Claudia hit the button on the coffee maker and cranked up the gas under the teakettle. I knew she desperately needed an Earl Gray, and I knew I would give my life for coffee. While we waited, the group took to straightening up, folding massage tables, and helping Janice get her things to her SUV.
I spied Ginny off to the side. I approached her, put my arms around her, and asked, “So how's my favorite professor?"
"Been better. Been worse,” she replied very matter-of-factly, but the hug was returned nonetheless.
"Anything I can do to get you into the never-been-better category?"
She smiled and replied only with a shake of the head.
"Well, let's see, other than in college, you've given me lectures on trust, patience, honesty—and God knows what else,” I said. “Want me to regurgitate any of those for you? They're awfully good."
She smiled and gave me a swat on the arm. I convinced myself that that constituted progress.
"Well, stubborn woman, I just want you to remember that I love you, Claudia loves you, and my other favorite prof over there loves you, too."
I saw her stiffen, and then she crossed her arms over her chest.
"She does,” I reminded her.
"I know she does,” she said, but there was no solace in the acknowledgement; it was merely a fact.
"Trust, patience, honesty—I can poop ‘em out like nobody's business. All you have to do is ask."
Ah, she laughed!
"You know,” she said, “sometimes I wonder how you ever keep your job with some of the stuff that comes out of your mouth."
"Hey, that paper would make a fortune if they stopped giving me assignments and just let me write what I thought! Isn't that what freedom of the press is for?"
Okay, she rolled her eyes that time, but she still laughed.
I kissed the top of her head. “Trust, honesty, patience,” I whispered and quickly retreated.
In my haste, I still managed to spy Alison out the front window chatting it up with Janice. Yoga meet Massage.
Massage meet Yoga.That had some possibilities.
I had not even made it to my second swallow of coffee before Claudia clapped her hands again. Everyone, including the smiling Alison, gathered around the kitchen's island. After what had just happened in our ‘gym class,’ I wondered if there was dread or excitement about moving onto the next. I also wondered if Claudia would even acknowledge it.
"So now that we've learned there are much better things to do in gym class than badminton, let's see what we can do in our next class,” she said very calmly. “Now we move on to Art Class—"
Anybody who knew Holly predicted the “Oh, that is so sweet!” that rushed her mouth and collided with Claudia's dissertation.
"You, Miss Crawford,” Claudia said, wagging a finger, “will be on your best behavior this class, or it's detention for you—alone!"
Holly's jaw dropped. Then she laughed and said, “Okay. I will. I promise."
The resulting laughter from everyone did nothing to add any oomph to her vow.
"Okay, who here—other than Holly, of course—has hadany occasion since being out of school to make a decoupage? Hands please."
When no hands rose, she asked, “Paper mache?"
No hands.
"Shadow box?"
Still no hands, but the natives were getting restless, and I knew they would start beating their drums. She sensed it, too, and started rattling off, “How about pictures made with glued macaroni? Popsicle stick people? Pipe cleaner animals? Pine cone ornaments..."
For the first time in six years, I welcomed the bellman's deranged tune. I made a dash for the front door, as Claudia's list dwindled, and she said, “So did those art teachers teach usanything we needed to know to grow up to be strong, healthy women?"
The same resounding “No!” blasted forth, just in time to impact our visitor through the opening door. His eyes shot wide open, and he froze in place.
"Women!” I said to him. “Just come on in. It's safer than it sounds."
He did so, somewhat reluctantly. He put a large box next to the front door, and I led him to the back of the group.
"Makeup, ladies! They should have taught us ... the fine art of makeup and facials!"
The whooping and hollering began, and I feared that Charles would run from the house screaming. If he did, I would go with him.
When Claudia handed the imaginary mic over to me, I introduced him. “Everyone, this is Charles."
I am not at all sure who started it, but a third-grade exaggeration of “Good mornin
g, Charles” filled the room.
"Good morning, everyone,” he said quite pleasantly.
"Charles is a dear friend of ours,” I said, “so be nice to him. And a little hint: He does not like to be called Mary Kay, Estee, or Avon Lady, so do not do it! I warn you: He has one mean pinch."
"Like this,” he said, taking a nasty squeeze of my thigh.
Didn't I knowanyone who was normal?
"Charles is going to guide us through facials and then give us some help with makeup. He's good at what he does, so trust him. This is also—hopefully—where you might need the checkbooks you were instructed to bring.
His car is loaded with loot, so if he shows you something you like, buy it! He's just getting started on his own and needs all the help he can get."
"Kate!” he yelled with indignation.
"Trust me, Charles. For what you're about to get yourself into, you deserve compensation."
As he retrieved his box, I nonchalantly went into the dining room and pulled the drapes on the sliding glass doors. Keeping them all on one task was difficult enough; chaos would ensue if there was even a hint of what was to come next.
Charles took his place at the center of the island. He was a very handsome man in his mid-twenties, with rich black hair combed to the side and the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt and crisply pressed khaki pants. With total concentration, he removed what he needed from the box and set it all on the island.
"The first thing we need to do is strip—” he managed to say only to be abruptly stopped by confusion as many jaws dropped and all eyes riveted to him. He looked to Claudia for explanation and reassurance.
"'Strip’ is not a good word at the moment, Charles,” she explained. “They're a little slow. Try again."
"Well, first thing we need to do is strip—Take off? Remove?” he tried, still perplexed and unsure of himself. He quickly grabbed a bottle from the island and held it up. “We need to use this. We need toremove all traces of makeup you have on.” When it seemed that everyone got the benign gist of what he was saying, he perked up again. “Facials are only good on perfectly clean skin. I have some remover for the face and some for the eyes. I also have these little shower caps to protect your hair."
Claudia grabbed a stack of towels from the kitchen counter and gave one to each. From his box, Charles removed small hand mirrors to help everyone accomplish the task. He spied Maggie reading the ingredients list on the makeup remover bottle. “Ah,” he acknowledged. “You must be our vegan."
Maggie nodded, and he told her to feel free to read them all, that all ingredients were natural and nothing had been tested on animals. With some weird brand name like “Make No Bones About It,” I figured it would be a quick read.
Soon everyone was barefaced, and I found myself thankful that we had already seen each other at our worst, as we all looked rather drab.
Charles held up a box with a tribal mask on it. “This is Aztec clay,” he informed. “It does a wonderful job of pulling impurities from the pores and tightening the skin. I'll mix it some with apple cider vinegar, and then you'll just paint it on, about an eighth of an inch thick. Leave it on for five minutes if you have sensitive skin, and about ten minutes if you have normal skin."
"And forty-five minutes if you are Kate,” Laura said.
I spat back, “And three days if you are Laura. Then maybe you'll look like the shithead you are!"
"Will you two quit it!” Claudia yelled. “You're both so juvenile."
"Yeah, we wouldn't want to be juvenile,” I defended. “That would be so like grade school or something."
She shook her head and released a “grrr” of frustration. I knew I trod thin ice and that she could easily become a harpoon when needed, but I also knew that she wanted this day to be fun for everyone. That desirehad to take into account that we were all juvenile when together—even her, if she'd step out of her manager role for a moment.
Ten minutes later we were all gray-faced and milling about the room, hoping beyond hope that every other face looked stranger than our own. Alison at one point hit the pantry and stuck elbow macaroni into the clay on her face to emulate eyebrows, saying, “Look, everyone. I'm a macaroni picture!” See, it wasn't just Laura and me. It was all nonsense, and yet it was all so very important.
By the time we were all washed up, Charles was ready with moisturizer. We all applied some as he filled the island with lipsticks, mascaras, foundations, powders, blushes, and eyeshadows—a glamour girl's dream. Like scavengers at the site of roadkill, the group's own glamour girls picked through it all. Claudia, Holly, and Susan went wild. Charles was very skilled at matching tones with the correct colors. He made suggestions and helped a few with some application techniques.
"Come here, Kate,” Claudia called. “I want to do your face."
I approached her and saw just how stunning her features were, made-up but far from imaginary. “Will I look as beautiful as you when you're done?” I asked.
"Probably not,” she quickly replied, grinning.
"Well, that was a Laura-like thing to say! Double-standards or what?"
"No. I was about to add that you'd bemore beautiful."
"Sure, you were, but I can take your teasing. In fact, I like it,” I said and planted a kiss on her forehead. “So go for it, but just remember I'm picky. I don't like feeling like I've gotstuff on my face. And I detest lipstick. I'll have it all over my shirt sleeve within two minutes."
I let her do as she saw fit, grateful for the tips Charles tossed at her, helping her keep it “light and natural."
My fidgeting finally brought my eyes to Maggie, who sat far removed from the group. She purposefully distracted herself with busy tasks: she fixed her hair, pulled her socks up, tied her shoelaces into perfectly taut bows. But all the while, she oozed extreme discomfort.
"Hey, humdinger!” I yelled, “Get over here and be someone's guinea pig."
"No,” she said. “I'm not really into the makeup stuff."
"That's because you don't need to beyet," Holly remarked. “I mean really! Look at her skin. It's beautiful.
Perfectly flawless."
"I agree. Flawless,” Charles said from the stool next to Holly's. “Stay out of the sun, girl! You've been blessed by a different light."
Okay, they had successfully let her off the hook, but something wasn't right. She had an attitude that did not match simple disinterest. “Come on, humdinger. Nobody's trying to convert you. It's just an opportunity to try something new. I bet Charles will let you use the makeup remover after you get all gussied up,” I said and received vigorous nodding from Charles. Then I added, “Look at me. I'm at Claudia's mercy. She could be making me look like Bozo's whore."
"Yeah, come on, Maggie. Give it a try. It's really fun,” Alison said, and a few others joined in with encouragement.
I looked at Susan, who I now realized was as removed from Maggie as Maggie was from the group. Then I instinctively looked to Kris, hoping for her to jump into her St. Mike's sheet and offer a little clinical perspective. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with which shade of peach eyeshadow went better with her lipstick.
"Humdinger!” I tired once more.
An angry look swept across her face, and very curtly she said, “It's dishonest."
"Dishonest?” I asked. I had an idea of what she meant, and I think I asked more to stall as my mind raced to wrap itself around the situation. Push-up bras, three-inch heels, and even sunglasses: there were a million things that were dishonest—and a necessity to the sisterhood. “What do you mean, dishonest?"
"It's a lie. It's making yourself into someone you're not."
The room fell completely silent and motionless.
The same angry look swept over Susan's face, and she asked, “Are you calling us a bunch of liars?"
"You, Susan, want me to wear makeup for one reason only,” Maggie accused. “And that's because if I wear makeup, people won't be so quick to
assume I'm lesbian. You can hide me better then."
Uh oh!
In my mind, I imagined shoving worms back into a can.
"I don't hide you! And I have never once said anything about you wearing makeup!” Susan defended, and I tried to stay on that sacred middle ground, shoving worms instead of stepping on them.
"Well, I think you do. I've never worn makeup, and I never will. Like I said, I think it's dishonest."
Here was another one of those moments that perpetually confounded me: I had gotten what I asked for, but now I didn't want it. At the same time, though, there was a part of me that couldn't leave well enough alone. I opened my lips to speak, and immediately Claudia mouthed, “Don't!” and forcefully pushed her makeup brush over my lips.
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