Above them sounded the shrill protest of woodland tenants. Disturbed from their routine, they abandoned their perches and screamed warnings and epithets at the intruders. Unrequited! Unrequited!
Unrequited! Lydia was convinced that’s what they yelled. The lovers obviously heard nothing of the sort. She cursed them and checked the time–thirty minutes–debating whether or not she could crawl the twenty or so yards to the footpath without being noticed.
Ten, perhaps, but not twenty she realized. It was too far to go. She turned over on her back, inconsolable, and stared up at the sky through the canopy of birches.
It was a perfectly clear day. She still wanted her. A sigh of frustration slipped free from her and she put a hand to her mouth to prevent another.
“Yes, there,” an excited lover instructed. The next words were choked.
Lydia heard a muffled response from the other woman.
“Mmmmm,” came a quick approval.
She felt her heart jump and scolded herself for it.
The woman’s voice raised up and then died down once more, settling into a seductive whisper of encouragement. It was followed by a low moan that drifted skyward to the treetops, which was soon chased by another. She could imagine Helaine here. Standing in the hot sun. Sitting in a window seat. Lying in the woods. Making love with her lover. Oh, it had not gone away at all. She shut her eyes and brought her hands to her ears, but it was too late for that.
She was a hopeless case. She saw this perfectly. That she was running, hiding, trying to block out anything that might remind her of Helaine. Moans and cries carried on the wind and taunted her. She wished to become numb again, impervious to the inspiration they sparked in her and castigated herself for wandering so far from the trail. Why the ladies had to pick this spot she hadn’t a clue. She checked the time, sighed into her hands, closed her eyes.
She was at the beginning once more, the genesis, and once more trapped in the void, hopelessly lost now between an elusive heaven and an immovable earth. The depth of who she had been, Lydia Beaumont, was gone forever she realized, staring up at the sky. She admitted that something dark and formless had taken her place, as dark and formless as a body of water and on that water she could see the spirit of a goddess moving, her wake disturbing the surface, rippling on it, like goose bumps on skin. She could see the light, a reflection.
Shouldn’t she just say it was good? Shouldn’t she divide herself from this darkness? Call it a day? Call it a night? Yes, but then what of the morning? What of evening? She groaned low. Her heart was a firmament.
She wanted to throw it across the water like a skipping stone, a shooting star, let her flame divide the water, gather it all in one place, that she might have dry land. Safe land, fertile and yielding.
Wouldn’t that be good? And then the only darkness would be the sky above her at night, full of stars for wishing and for the signs of the zodiac, or to happily mark the seasons, the days, the years. Darkness then would be good, too, simply a place for the sun to sleep at night or for the creatures of the earth to rest in until morning. Creatures like her. And a goddess. A goddess must have sleep, too.
Another scream. Lydia felt she should applaud the lovers at this point. Wood nymphs. Lydia marveled at their stamina and listened for the climax.
Listening, she thought maybe it was just as well the blond was not available. How could she have made her happy like that? A minute or an hour, it’s probably a question of experience. Perhaps she had been spared by the gods at the last minute. What did she know about such things anyway? There’s no book on that, she bet. (Sobs and gasps through the ferns again.) Is there?
Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. One orgasm, that was all Lydia was used to getting, even from Joe. Clever Joe. She rolled over on her stomach and stared through the greenery at the two women, now kissing, now embracing, their stomachs touching. Breasts, lips, arms, palms, thighs. Cognac? Oysters? How exactly do you make love to a woman?
The lovers were trying to stand. Whoops. They were kneeling again. Lydia was finally able to see their faces. That one she had met last week. She had noticed that she wore a wedding band. The other one had just arrived. Both about forty-something, good shape. They had either known each other before or…? Lydia scoffed ruefully. Nah, they had just met. She dropped her head down and undertook to memorize the patterns of moss as she rested on her elbows, contemplated her mistakes.
She who hesitates. It should be our tryst in the woods she thought grudgingly. Us scaring the birds off their nests. She had hesitated, that’s for sure. More than hesitated, she had lollygagged, as if she had all the time in the world. She could at last admit it, ridiculously stranded as she now found herself to be. Out of her league, an entirely new experience: incompetence. Why, she had never even spoken to Helaine, didn’t even know her last name. Was there a whole universe of ready-wear women simply for the asking? Could she possibly be the only woman in the world who hesitated?
It seemed possible. She couldn’t imagine Delilah being so inhibited. She should have confided in her sooner, told her what really she wanted. Why hadn’t she? Because I don’t know what I’m doing–I’ve never pursued anyone, let alone a woman. She took stock of the last six months. Look how I screwed the whole thing up, she lamented silently.
She pictured the twenty-something living doll that had materialized as Helaine’s lover. That woman would never hesitate. Which is why she has her and I don’t. Which is why I’m stuck out here in the woods like a sex-starved maniac watching other women have a good time. She thought about that, her thirty-six-year-old heart sinking like a wrecked ship to the bottom of an ocean. No, being bold wasn’t the only reason. Helaine’s lover was also young and beautiful, a perfect ten.
Then why do you make eyes at me? Why were you always alone? Why were you so miserable the last time I saw you, acting like you wanted to be near me?
Laughter in the woods.
The ladies were finally getting dressed, doing that clumsy dance that people do when putting their clothes on hastily. There was the sound of clinking belts and zipping zippers. The final touches. Licks and promises.
Just for the record Lydia glanced at the time. They were heading her way. She lay low in the underbrush and made herself as small as possible as they cut across the ferns, passing within six feet of her on their way back to the path.
“I’m walking funny,” the married one announced.
Lydia held her breath as they walked by giggling and whispering.
“That’s because you’re greedy.”
“You’re so right.”
“I hope we weren’t in any poison ivy.”
“Wouldn’t that be something to explain?”
“Imagine what Charles would say. Isn’t that his name?”
“Charles!” They squealed at the mention of Charles.
“What are you doing for dinner?”
“You.”
“And what’s for dessert?”
“Me.”
They reached the top of the knoll near the path, their voices trailing off at last. Lydia lay quietly for a few minutes before sitting up. Eventually even the birds were still once more.
Lydia stood up, brushed herself off and considered the water. It was hard to gauge the distance to the other side of the pond, but it was certainly quicker than the trail and it would rule out running into the ladies who were sure to be taking their time, strolling leisurely, being satisfied with each other. She tied her sneakers to her waist and waded in.
_____
Back in her room, Lydia changed for dinner and scheduled a facial. It was nice at the spa, but she should think about leaving soon. She regarded the rendezvous in the woods as a setback of sorts and it made it seem rather pointless to continue hiding out.
She sat in the dining hall trying to formulate a better plan and reddened when the wood nymphs appeared in the doorway, looking a lot less casual in their evening attire, yet nonetheless interested in each other. She would never have gu
essed just by looking at them, but then she was willing to admit that she was a neophyte at these things. She would never have guessed it of Helaine, either.
Helaine so and so. Yeah, it was time to go home. Lydia had a life to live.
_____
“In love there is no east and west; no North and south. And there are no distinct borders or boundaries for dispute. Rather there are comfort zones and these must at all times be respected.”
Dr. Helaine Kristenson, “Keeping Mr. Right”
Check this out, observed Dr. Kristenson. The way he’s sitting, she could tell he was wearing one of his wife’s things under his clothes. Look how stricken the woman seems today.
Dr. Kristenson selected a benign expression. Best to be diplomatic about it.
Dr. K: (clears her throat) How would you like to begin today’s discussion?
S: Don’t ask me. I am not the one having the problem.
Dr. K: Okay…?
M: (deep drawn out sigh) Dr. Kristenson, I just want a normal life. Like it was before. I want him to be (long pause; he is glaring at her; she is trying not to look at him) to be a normal husband. A normal man.
Dr. K: We seem to be backsliding on this. Can you each describe what has happened since we last met?
(She looks from one to the other.)
S: Nothing, doctor. Nothing at all! She’s got too many hang-ups. You know what you are, M? You’re a rigid fundamentalist. And you’re oppressing me with your hang-ups. (crosses, uncrosses his legs; he has recently taken to wearing her undergarments and wants her to have intercourse with him when he is in drag) Dr. K: Let’s bring it down a bit, S. Would you like to respond to that, M?
M: I’m sorry Dr. Kristenson, I’ve tried. (she is obviously depressed) I feel ridiculous. I can’t help it. (she won’t look at him at all now) I feel (long pregnant pause) ugly.
Dr. K: (passes on that one, waits for the husband’s response)
S: If she loved me and respected my needs there wouldn’t be a problem with it.
M: If you loved and respected me then you wouldn’t need to wear my things!
S: See what I mean, doctor? My, my, my, all the time my! You are so selfish, M. You are ruining everything with this shit.
Dr. Kristenson held up her hands in the shape of a T and they quieted down. Eight sessions and the wife was still in extreme discomfort over this issue. She had tried it his new way and didn’t like it. For her own reasons, Dr. Kristenson was inclined to identify with the plight of the wife. The woman felt ridiculous in bed with him, enough so that she couldn’t feel romantic anymore. He had pushed her too far with his fetish, a fetish she had never even known about until a few months ago, which is why they were in counseling to begin with. Now the woman was experiencing a kind of female impotence with her husband. She couldn’t have sex with him at all. Their love life was simply not elastic enough to accommodate the kind of bedtime antics he had in mind and by forcing the issue on her, wearing her things and playing a blame game, he had crippled her feminine pride. The doctor sighed sympathetically without meaning to. She wondered why he hadn’t at least had the courage to buy his own fancy underwear.
They waited gloomy-faced for her to speak, their bodies posed in the manner of those who are prepared to wait forever, if need be, for the right answer.
Dr. Kristenson wanted to say, look mister, here’s your wife’s core issue: If you are not a real man then she must not be a real woman. But how could it help? She masked her annoyance and indicated with her pencil that they should continue their dialogue.
M: Dr. Kristenson, you’re a woman. Can you understand how I feel?
Dr. K: (Ummm.)
S: She doesn’t have the hang-ups you have! She knows it’s perfectly natural.
Dr. K: (holds up her hand again; they are silent once more; she folds her hands around her knee and smiles bleakly) I am not here to take sides. I am here to help you work this out, if that’s what you both want.
An issue like this is only a problem if the marriage cannot withstand it. If that is the case, the behavior remains right for one partner, but wrong for the other, and thereby wrong for the health of your relationship.
(she paused to see if they comprehended her meaning) Do you feel that this might be the case?
M: Yes.
S: No.
_____
“Del Lewiston,” Delilah shouted, pointing at the empty chair. “May I?”
“Please do.” Helaine was surprised she had come over. She shook the extended hand, “Helaine,” was all she volunteered, “How do you do? Can I get you anything from the bar?”
“Oh, no! I’m already three sheets–how’s that go?”
Helaine smiled. “Three sheets to the wind–it’s a sailing metaphor!”
“That’s it!” She wasn’t really drunk. “You look awfully familiar!”
It was a crowded, noisy night at Frank’s. Helaine pretended not to understand her.
Delilah leaned forward and yelled above the room. “You know I’ve got a friend who’s just gaga over you!”
Gaga? Helaine looked over her shoulder and back again. She nodded.
“Do you know which friend I mean?”
Helaine nodded again. “The feeling is–”
“What?”
Helaine grinned and leaned across the table. “I said the feeling is mutual!”
“Mutual? Oh, MUTUAL! Good! Wonderful! Then what’s the problem?”
Good question. “Where is she?” Helaine asked.
“Where?”
“Yes!”
“Moping somewhere.”
“Oh? I’m very sorry to hear that. Do you know why?”
“Because–I’m not exactly sure how to put it! What’s the problem, I asked?”
Helaine waited for the room to quiet down before answering. “There are complications.”
Delilah indicated she understood. “Husband?”
Helaine laughed. “Uh…no. Just as bad, I’m afraid.”
“Does my friend know this?”
Helaine coughed nervously. “She does now.”
Delilah’s eyes brightened with insight. “I see.” She rolled the information over in her head. “You know ladies, it’s a modern world out there. This would not be a ‘complication’ for the rest of us.”
“But your friend?”
Delilah wanted to lie for Lydia but she was reluctant to misrepresent her. “Nah, she wouldn’t go for it, I think. Not knowingly.” She rose from the table seeing that the waiter was delivering Helaine’s food.
Helaine liked her. “You’re a good friend, Del.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Helaine whoever you are, incognito. We’ve never had this conversation.
S’aright?”
Helaine smiled confidentially. “Of course.”
Delilah headed for the bar.
“News?” the waiter asked hopefully. He set a dessert down that Helaine hadn’t ordered. “Eat,” he prompted. “So where is she?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t say.”
He handed her a fork and knife. “Is she coming back?”
“She didn’t say that either.”
He grimaced. “What then?” His movements were drawn out, unnatural.
Helaine laughed at his expense and cut into the black forest. “She’s ‘gaga’,” she replied.
The waiter slowly loaded his tray, bending low as he did it. “Gaga?”
“Mmmm.”
He hoisted up the tray and winked. “Gosh!”
She laughed. It was a relief to smile again even if she didn’t know where Lydia was.
“Gaga,” the waiter said, finally turning to leave. “Isn’t that French?”
_____
The city was hotter than Lydia expected it to be. The trees along the avenues stood brooding and indignant, unhappy with the heat and their isolation. They seemed to resent the shaded walks beneath their limbs and the scorched humans who intermittently took refuge there. Here and there, at a taxi stand
or bus stop, a blistering bench shone empty and forlorn in the full mid-day sun, the hardwood beside it deliberately refusing to provide any comfort.
She had a week left of her vacation. Summer in metropolis. Lydia had forgotten how sticky it could be.
She plodded back from the car rental, the sidewalks burning through her sandals, and sighed with relief when she finally entered the air conditioned lobby of her building. The doorman smiled his familiar greeting but even he looked hot and bothered. She should have stayed in the woods with the happy vegetation, she mused as she stepped into the elevator.
A pile of newspapers blocked the entrance to the penthouse. She climbed over them and unlocked the door, flicking the overheads on and tossing her bag in before her.
She smiled with delight at the blast of cool air that greeted her, the sight of the glorious wood floors. No more dingy welcome-homes. The place was inviting even without furniture. In the living room the old sofa stood as a lone sentinel and it beckoned her to come and tell her all about her trip. Beside it, the answering machine blinked like a Christmas tree and she plopped into the waiting pillows and hit the play button with her thumb.
Ooh, what’s that? A din from the club: the girls singing. Mom. Del. Mom. Hang-up. Paint’s here? The paint! Mom. Mom again (oh, brother). Dad? Del. Another hang-up.
She rewound it. Better call Mom first. Then Del. Daddy can wait.
_____
“Well, how are you?”
“A hundred percent and declining.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm, any day now I expect to start dying.”
“Liddy! We start dying the day we’re born.”
“No, c’mon, Del. I don’t see how that could be. When you’re young you’re growing and growing. That’s the epitome of life.”
“Dying and dying. I’m sure of it. It just looks like growth. I can see we’re still morbidly preoccupied. So what’s a vacation for anyway?”
The Secret Keeping Page 15