“Laura?”
“Hi, Mom.” She sat at her desk.
“May I come in?”
“Sure.” Laura’s nonchalance was forced.
“Finished?”
“Mostly.”
“What’s left?”
“Have to read the last part of Macbeth for English.”
Cig sat down on Laura’s bed. “There’s pussyfooting going on.”
“Uh—”
“Your Aunt Grace wanted to know if we’d talked about the dance and your brother says he knows nothing, which means he knows everything. What am I missing? Is there more between you and Donny than I know or want to know?” She half-laughed.
“I don’t like Donny.”
“Are you going to the dance with someone else?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Who?”
Laura flipped through the last two acts of Macbeth as though it were a card deck, then quietly she said, “Parry.”
“That’s fine. There will be lots of boys who go without dates, too. In fact, it will probably be a lot more fun.” Cig brightened.
Laura drummed her fingertips on the top of the desk. “Yeah—well.”
“Honey, I think that’s a marvelous idea and I’ll drive you all there if Hunter won’t give you a ride. He’s taking Beryl Smith. Guess you know.”
“Yes,” Laura said, her eyes now firmly on her mother’s. “I want to take Parry as my date.”
“What do you mean, your date?”
“My date.”
“You mean you’re going to dance with her?” Gg’s shoulders rose then lowered. “Well, I suppose you can but I promise you there will be boys there who—”
“I don’t care about the boys.” Laura’s voice grew more firm with each exchange.
“I’m missing something.”
“Mom, I’m going to the dance with Parry. I like her more than anybody.”
Cig held up her hands. “Wait a minute. You like her or you like her?”
“I like her.”
“Ah.” Cig gripped the edges of the bed with both hands. “Like her like you want to kiss her?”
“Mom,” Laura implored, “I don’t want to go into details.”
“You have a crush on Parry. Now, have I got that right?”
“Yes.”
Cig waited a moment. “At your age I guess that’s par for the course but really, you don’t have to date the girls you have crushes on, honey. I never did.”
“But you’re straight. I’m not.”
“How do you know that?” Cig challenged Laura without meaning to do it. It had just popped out of her mouth.
“Mom, that’s something you… know.”
“You’re a perfectly normal child!”
“Mother!” Laura slammed her book shut and the dust flew off the pages.
“Now I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, it’s just that this is sudden and you’re so young and—”
“It’s not sudden. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
Cig didn’t ask what a long time was. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I talked to Aunt Grace.” Laura’s voice lowered.
“What in the hell does Grace know about a thing like that?”
“She said that I should follow my heart. She didn’t think it was such a big deal.”
“I didn’t say it was a big deal, and furthermore, Aunt Grace has followed her heart too many times.”
“You’re upset. I knew you’d be upset.”
“I’m not upset,” Cig lied. “It’s a little, uh, surprising, that’s all, and I think you might not want to act in haste.”
“I’m not acting in haste. I have a right to go to the dance with whomever I wish!”
Cig held up her hands for peace. “I know, but the world is hardly the liberal, wonderful place we wish it would be and you’re asking for trouble.”
“How come when gay people want to be happy they’re asking for trouble?” Laura yelled.
“Because the world is fucking unfair, that’s why! All I’m doing is telling you what to expect. I’m not saying that it’s right.”
“Well, I can take it. I’d rather be happy with Parry than accepted with somebody I don’t love.”
“Laura, you’re fifteen. Let’s not get too carried away here. Who knows what will come of you and Parry?”
“Whatever becomes of me and Parry isn’t going to change the fact that I’m gay.”
“I hate labels. It makes people sound like cans of tuna.”
“I am gay, Mom. That’s that.” Laura stopped, exasperated.
“You’re my daughter and I love you.” Cig abruptly stood up. “I’m a little confused. Let’s sort this out later.”
“There’s nothing to sort out.”
“About the dance, there is.”
“I’m going!” Laura’s jaw jutted out.
“I know. I’m not forbidding you but perhaps I’d better go along. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Hunter will be there. No one’s going to beat us up.”
“I don’t know that. It’s a crazy world.” Cig leaned against the doorway for a moment. “Laura, go slow. Take lots of time.”
“Mother, I know who I am. Inside.”
“Well, I’m glad one of us does.” Cig smiled at her. “I’ll take a little time to get used to this.”
Laura wanted instant acceptance but was smart enough to know this wasn’t a bad beginning. “Okay.”
“Just let me think about the dance, okay? I’m not saying you can’t go. Just let me think about the repercussions.”
“Okay.”
Cig left her daughter’s room, nearly tripping over Peachpaws who was lying over the threshold. She alternated between wanting to go to sleep and wanting to rip Grace’s face off for usurping her maternal role. How easy to be glorious Aunt Grace who counsels that you follow your heart, indulge in a sapphic rapture. She wouldn’t have to pay the price. Then Cig caught herself.
Damn the Benedicts! If they’d bought Hardtack Manor, she could rub money on her troubles.
4
Closing her bedroom door behind her, Cig flopped on her bed, covered by a faded Black Watch down comforter. Woodrow flopped down beside her. He was all set for serious interspecies kissing when he saw Cig pick up the telephone. He decided to wash himself instead.
“Hi, Will, how are you?”
“Can’t complain,” said the man who usually did. “Want to speak to Grace?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, before I buzz her—she’s in her office—I wanted to ask you why Laura turned down Donny Forbush’s invitation to the dance.”
Cig knew Will’s “can’t complain” was bull. “Will, I was a teenaged girl once, and all I can say is it’s a wildly irrational time.” Cig scrambled to think of something more original to say but originality wasn’t her strong suit.
Will chuckled. ‘Teenaged boys are worse but you might want to have a talk with her. Apparently, Donny is trashed, I believe that’s the word he used with his father.”
“It’s probably the first time any girl has ever turned him down.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, but the Forbushes are valuable friends. One can’t have enough friends in elected office, you know.”
“Will, these are kids. Surely Gene Forbush knows that.”
“Gene Forbush has a big ego for himself and for his son.” Will attempted to keep a genial tone.
“Come on, don’t pressure Laura. She doesn’t want to go out with the boy. Anyway, at that age they’re in love one day and at each other’s throats the next.”
“Umm, well, let me buzz Grace.” Will tired of the subject. “But Cig, if there’s anything you can do to change her mind I do believe it would be beneficial to all of us.”
She heard a click and then Grace picked up. “Hello.”
“Grace, what are you doing telling my daughter to be a lesbian?”
A sharp intake of bre
ath preceded her reply. “I did not!”
“She thinks you did.”
“What I said,” Grace patiently, even patronizingly, began, “was that the leopard can’t change its spots.”
“We’re talking about my daughter, not a leopard.”
“You know what I mean.” Grace sounded flat-out superior now.
“No, I don’t.”
“You can’t force Laura into anything.”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t. But this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“She was nervous.”
“She wasn’t nervous tonight.”
“Good.”
“What’s good about it? You’re encouraging my child to embark on a life of social rejection, economic hardship, and no security whatsoever.”
“There is no security on this earth, only opportunity.”
“Gag me, Sister. You are sitting in a shitload of security even if you are bored out of your skull.”
Grace flashed back. “Listen, if you resist Laura on this she’ll turn into a motorcycle dyke just to spite you. If you try a little patience, don’t make a fuss, what you’ll get is a very beautiful girl who likes other girls. It could be a whole lot worse.”
“How can she possibly know who she is or what she wants at fifteen?”
“Don’t be an ass, Cig. People are born that way. If homosexuals were made then we could unmake them. Obviously, we can’t.”
Cig, furious now, demanded, “Why didn’t you come to me the instant she talked to you?”
“I’m not going to betray a trust.”
“You don’t mind betraying your husband.” Cig aimed a low blow, very low.
“That’s different! Sex is not about ethics.”
“And you’re a Republican, speaking about ethics and family values?” Cig steamed, then thought a second. “Actually, of course you are. Goddamned hypocrite.”
“Being a Republican has nothing to do with it and we will bring the party back to the center so just shut up. You don’t know your ass from your elbow when it comes to politics and you don’t know your ass from your elbow when it comes to your daughter. This is a trying time for her.”
“Me, too. A big fat help you are.”
“What do you want me to do? Tell her she has to screw boys?”
“Don’t be crude,” Cig snapped. “And that little hint when you left, ‘Has Laura talked to you?’ “Cig mimicked her sister’s voice. “You could have told me then. I hate innuendo.”
“You hate subtlety. You want it all plain in black and white. You should have been an engineer or an accountant. They always have clear answers.”
“I don’t like futzing around. That’s not wanting the world to be in black and white.”
Grace tacked to a new breeze. “What are you going to do?”
“Wring your neck.”
“After that.”
A long pause. “I don’t know.”
“Scared?”
“No—yes.”
“Of what? What people will say?”
Cig reached over and scratched Woodrow. “I’d like to say I’m immune to public opinion but I’m not. I mean, it isn’t going to send me over the edge if they dog me or my child, but Jesus, life is easier if people like you.”
“They’ll still like you but some will pity you, some will blame you, others will blame it on Blackie’s death at an impressionable age for Laura, and others won’t care as long as she’s happy. That about sums it up.”
“Actually, I’m much more worried for her. I mean, you asked me about other people so I answered but it’s Laura I care about. My life is over in a way.”
“Don’t say that!”
“All right. But Grace, people are so hateful. Strangers will despise Laura without knowing her and she’s a great kid. She could get fired from jobs—if they’ll even hire her. She has no legal protection of any kind. If she ever settles down, I mean. I don’t want to think about this…”
“That’s pretty far in the future. My advice is, don’t make a big deal out of it. If she really is gay she’ll have plenty of time to adjust and so will you. Right now she’s feeling the first flush of puppy love—and look on the bright side: no unwanted pregnancies.”
Cig laughed despite herself. “There is that.”
“Are you done yelling at me?”
“For now.”
“Good. Go to bed. We’ve both got to get up early tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cig sighed. “Night, Gracie.”
“Night, Ciggie.”
The phone clicked. Cig hung up the receiver, gave Woodrow a pat then walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She read the cutout she had taped on her mirror. In Old English typography it read “Shit Happens.”
She mumbled with the toothbrush in her mouth, “Oh, shit.”
5
Two green eyes stared into her own when Cig awoke at 5:30 A.M. Woodrow, in his sphinx pose, paws under Cig’s chin, stretched over her chest. His purrs rumbled throughout her body.
Cig thought the Sphinx had been a Maine coon cat—the Egyptians just didn’t get it right. Snuggling was his second favorite activity. Eating was his first, and he trilled when she opened her eyes. His tail swished like a windshield wiper in high gear. He was blissfully unaware of the cause of last night’s tensions, nor did he set store by anniversaries. For Woodrow, today was all that mattered.
“Morning, Woodrow.”
He meowed his greetings as Cig swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the smooth heart pine floor. Peachpaws woke up, yawning.
Cig found her worn slippers and hurried into the bathroom.
Old houses exude a charm, a gathering of all the energies poured into them. They’re also cold as a witch’s tit. The bathroom, added to the house in the 1920s, had some insulation, which Cig and Blackie had augmented in the 1980s. Dashing into the bathroom provided relief since it was warmer than the bedroom. As she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and quickly twisted her hair into a braid, Woodrow purred, rubbing against her legs.
“Come on, pussycat. Tuna treat this morning? What about you, pooch? Lamb stew on crunchies?” She threw on her red robe, and they hurried down the narrow curving back stairway leading directly into the kitchen with its large fireplace. Woodrow managed to purr even as he ate. Peachpaws inhaled his food. Cig put up coffee, set three bowls on the table and checked the thermometer. Thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. As she looked out the tall windows toward the stable she could see that ground fog hung over the pastures like old cigar smoke, a leftover perhaps from a stag party for the gods.
She walked through the kitchen, out to the center hall of the federal home and to the foot of the big staircase. She thought about yelling and then decided against it. So she climbed the stairs, the banister railing worn shiny through generations of use, and entered her son’s bedroom.
“Hunter, get moving, honey.” She shook him awake. He blinked at her with deep brown eyes like her own.
“Good day for scent, Mom?”
“I think so. Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay.”
She headed down the hall and opened the door to Laura’s room, plastered with posters of Anne Kursinski, Katie Monahan Prudent, and Charlie Weaver. A small photo of Parry Tetrick had been placed on the wall last night. Cig sighed and touched Laura on the shoulder. “Up and at ‘em.”
“Uh.” Laura was loath to leave her warm bed.
“Come on, hotshot, breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes and we’ve got worms to turn and eggs to lay.”
“Uh-huh.” Laura emerged from under the down comforter and groped her way to the bathroom.
Woodrow enjoyed presiding over breakfast or any other meal. He sat in Blackie’s chair and gravely watched each forkful of egg as it made its way into the various mouths.
Hunter gave a piece of egg to the cat.
“Hunter, don’t feed Woodrow at the table,” Cig chided.
“You do.”
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She thought a moment. “Well—only when you’re not looking.”
They laughed. They had been laughing more recently. The weight of numbness having passed, intense grief had set in. But during the last few weeks they’d begun to awaken. Blackie’s death had blindsided his family. It took a year to accept that he was gone. Cig, Hunter, and Laura had gone over and over his last day as though grasping every minute would keep him closer longer. Blackie had stopped at Grace’s house to drop off contracts for will concerning a small downtown rental property will wanted to buy. Blackie was Will’s lawyer. Such an ordinary visit, a drink offered and a drink accepted. He died when Grace returned to the kitchen for more ice. No one could believe he’d slip away that quietly or quickly. There was nothing quiet about Blackie.
Grace and Cig, known as Beauty and Brains when they were children, both possessed cool heads. Grace called 911, administered all the first aid revival techniques she knew, and then had the painful duty of driving out to the farm to tell Cig that she was a widow. She didn’t want to tell her over the phone.
Cig shut the door on that memory this morning, cracking the whip over Hunter’s and Laura’s heads to hurry them up.
Grace pulled up at the stable, and shortly after, the phone rang.
“I’m on my way,” Cig told her sister, who called from the tackroom. “Let’s just table all significant topics, all right?”
“All right,” Grace agreed.
“Hunter, Laura, come on!” They shoved extra doughnuts into their mouths as they washed their cereal bowls.
Cig stepped into her L.L. Bean duck boots and opened the back door. Woodrow and Peachpaws shot out, both pausing to inhale the crisp October dawn, which promised a beautiful sunrise, the odor of turning leaves rich yet melancholy, a perfect day for a foxhunt.
“Great day,” Grace hollered at Cig as she strode into the stable. “Passed Harleyetta on the road. I expect shell be the first one at the meet. And I should have spent the night here. Will came home last night in a foul mood, apart from everything else.”
Riding Shotgun Page 5