We sorted through Gregory’s DVDs only to find that most were gay-themed. “Well, we’re gay, now,” Claire said cheerfully.
“Gay-men-themed,” I mentioned.
Claire decided on The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, before she opened another drawer stocked with straight films, mostly love stories. “What a coincidence that the male leads are all gorgeous,” Claire noted. “Yes!” she suddenly exclaimed, retrieving To Catch a Thief.
Soon, I was curled up in Claire’s arms and watching Cary Grant and Grace Kelly fall in love amidst the splendor of the Riviera. Cary Grant’s character was a thief named John Robie and when the French girl called him the “the cat,” I laughed. “Okay. I’m a little slow.”
Claire smiled, gave me a wink. Suddenly, lightning flashed a bright beam across our living room and rolling thunder sounded like an impending train crash. Pellets of rain slashed against the window. Claire and I just snuggled closer together, lost in the beauty of Southern France and two beautiful stars.
I loved the film and I loved spending the evening hugging Claire. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. The closest we came to sex was a long, lush kiss goodnight, “in honor of Cary and Grace.”
The next morning, I awoke to hear Claire on her cell phone. Peter was trying to get her back. She finally told him that if he didn’t stop calling, she would block his number.
Claire returned to bed and we caressed each other. We both hated that this was our last real day to spend time together until the following weekend. We knew that our relationship would suffer dearly if during the week, we only saw each other for an hour in the morning and late at night.
“I’ll try to get a second-shift job,” I offered.
Claire loved the idea of us both working the same hours and having all day to ourselves to take strolls or just lie in bed on rainy days. “What do you think about not getting out of bed next Saturday, rain or shine?” Claire wondered
“Gregory is having a luncheon. It’s not a group thing but I’m sure we can go.”
“Think we will be brave enough?
“We’ll see.”
First we had to face Elaine. I wasn’t sure what to say to her because I was at a loss myself. Two days before, I was, or at least thought I was, totally heterosexual, having never once thought about being with a woman and now I felt completely in love with Claire. But the moment I again saw the picture of Elaine and my mother on Elaine’s mantel, I was even more lost. Was I so obsessed with my mother that I had experimented with bisexuality just because she had?
Over cups of herbal tea, Elaine assured us that it wasn’t that simple. “A lot of women don’t realize that they are bisexual because they never get the opportunity to find out. And there is probably more intimacy. It’s the old cliché, men want sex and women want love, and every couple has to work out some compromise. In theory, two women are both looking for love. So they should be perfectly compatible, but it doesn’t always work out that way.”
Elaine served us sugar-free cakes made with something called stevia, which was really sweet and supposedly good for you. Claire and I helped ourselves to seconds while Elaine continued. “You see more of this with women in recovery because they usually have so much baggage with men that they try to make a new start with a woman. This may be some quick fling or you may last for decades.”
Elaine laughed lightly. “As you know, damn few relationships last decades, anyway. But some women have told me that even the sex is better than with men, especially when they enhance it with artificial devices that never, well, go limp.” Claire gave me a girlish smile and Elaine looked embarrassed. “Good luck to you both,” she said finally.
Claire took my hand. “Does this mean that we have your blessing?” I asked.
Elaine smiled. “I’m not sure that my blessing would mean all much.” She sipped her tea. “You do know that group doesn’t recommend you getting into a relationship during the first year of recovery.”
“I’ve been in recovery for three years,” Claire insisted.
Elaine glanced at her. “The first year of sobriety.”
“Couldn’t it be better, helping each other stay sober?” I wondered.
“Sometimes,” Elaine admitted. “But usually people new to sobriety have so much shit to work through. With two people involved, it may be hard to figure out which person’s shit you are dealing with.” Elaine sighed and then added. “But you do have my support. Just don’t hold hands in Rosebud.”
I nearly laughed at the thought. I never expected to again return to the place of my birth but even if I did, I would never be stupid enough to go back there with a lesbian lover. I’d rather cut my throat in the Big Apple and save myself and them the bother of having to stone me to death.
After the dressing down that Katherine had given Claire, we were both encouraged by Elaine’s comments. Claire had to go to work in a couple of hours and I wanted to spend our last minutes strolling through Central Park. But she had another idea. “What say we get one of those ‘artificial devices,’” she suggested with a fiendish smile. I was too shocked and embarrassed to answer. But Claire was adamant and we headed over to Eighth Avenue. I waited outside as Claire dashed into the first two adult bookstores for quick peaks. In the third one, she found what she wanted—a girl behind the counter.
“I can’t do this,” I admitted caught between a laugh and a scream. “It’s just too much.”
“Wait here then.”
I shook my head. “I can’t even do that.” I noticed a Fifties-style malt shop across the Avenue. “I’ll wait in there.”
As I was savoring my first spoonful of the thickest raspberry malt I had ever tasted in my life, Claire strolled in with a nondescript brown plastic bag, looking like the average weekend shopper that she most certainly was not. I guess I didn’t expect a porn shop to advertise their wares but Claire’s broad smile said it all. “I asked the girl a million questions and she was great. I swear, I think she’s demoed them all. And,” she laughed, “because all these guys in there were so embarrassed that I was there, it was more fun. Anyway, we ended up getting the standard job with no bells or whistles. Medium size. No horses, no mice.” She then pulled the contents out of the bag. Although it was boxed, the contents were obvious. “Meet our Artie,” she said, “as in Artificial Device.”
I nearly sprayed my malt all over my top. I tried to chug it so we could get out of there quickly but instead I got brain freeze. Claire pulled a sheet of instructions from the bag. “You can heat it in the oven or freeze it,” she kindly informed me. This time, I nearly sprayed raspberry all over the wall photo of some Fifties crooner. Claire glanced at her watch. “I don’t have much time. Maybe we can take Artie home for a quickie test drive.”
That was it! I was panicked that the sweet mothers with their children might actually get the gist of our conversation. Even liberal New York City must have its limits!
Forlornly, I abandoned the awesome malt and yanked Claire out of there. Of course, Claire thought my mad dash was some insane need to consummate Artie. Rather than risk losing valuable time waiting for a subway, we jumped into a cab and within minutes, we were jumping into bed. Having read the instructions, gratefully to herself, on the ride home, Claire offered to do the honors for Artie’s inaugural. Despite rushing home, Claire was slow and deliberate responding to what turned me on and then took me to an incredible ecstasy. When I got my breath back, I returned the favor and then we languidly lay in each other’s arms easily seeing how some women could go a lifetime without ever needing a man.
We both hated the idea of Claire having to go to work but she didn’t want to risk another absence. We walked quickly over toward Sheridan Square until I heard a train slowing down. “Hurry,” I yelled and sprinted toward the station. I darted down the stairs, shot through the turnstiles and held the doors open until Claire caught up.
“Jesus,” she said. “Did you run track when you were in school? You’re a goddamn bullet.”
“I didn’t want us to miss it.”
We got to Columbus Circle early enough to stroll courageously hand-in-hand to the restaurant.
The wait staff got a free dinner, especially if there was a new special, like that night, so they could honestly tell people that it was fabulous. The chef not only let me sit with Claire but also fed me. I had never before heard of the special, Lobster Thermidor, but it was so fabulous that I wanted to eat it every meal for the rest of my life. Until Claire told me how much it cost. I nearly went into shock. Claire explained that I could pay it off in monthly installments before laughing that it was free.
I had planned to then go home to wait for Claire’s call during her break. But instead, I ambled around the Upper West Side for hours occasionally stopping for coffee but staying well away from any bars. My new relationship may not last but I didn’t want it to end because I’d spent our third night together drunk and in bed with some guy.
I admired the skyscrapers’ myriad lights. Dark clouds hovered on the horizon but they didn’t open up to drench this city that I now suddenly loved. Sellers of cheap umbrellas appeared on street corners. Despite this ominous sign, I forbore from buying one.
I returned to the restaurant a little after eleven to see a man milling around the entrance. He was muscular with tattoos on his arm and neck and gave me such a dirty look that I suspected he was Peter. I passed by him and waited near the corner. Claire finally emerged and they immediately began to argue. I ran up to stand beside her. I really had no idea what I would do but I didn’t want Claire to have to face him alone.
He turned to me and snapped, “Is this the dike?”
“It’s none of your business who she is,” Claire shot back.
Peter glared at us as we stood shoulder to shoulder. He looked like he wanted to smash both our faces in but knew that this would realize Claire’s, and my, worst fear. He grabbed Claire’s arm. “I just want to talk to you. Alone!”
She wrested away from him as a cab cruised down the street. Claire flagged it to a screeching stop, yanked open the door and shoved me inside as Peter grabbed her. “Damn it, Claire! I just want to talk!”
She twisted away again and dove into the cab, screaming, “Go!”
A thunderous crash on the car’s roof sounded like it had dented it. Then Peter’s fist whacked at the back window but didn’t crack it. The driver squealed away. In a thick accent, the driver screamed, “He is crazy. I am phoning the police.”
“No,” said Claire. “Don’t. He’ll be okay. He’s just upset.” But she kept looking to see if he was following us and I hoped that the corner light wouldn’t turn red and give Peter another chance.
“He tried to wreck my cab,” countered the driver. “He is a lunatic.”
Fortunately, the light stayed green and we swerved down Broadway. All the way to the Village both Claire and I kept glancing behind us. The clouds finally cracked in a loud burst, pelting the windows with rain and blurring our view.
We jumped out on Seven Avenue South. If Peter was behind us, we didn’t want to lead him straight to the apartment. I quickly regretted not buying a cheap umbrella.
The driver frowned at the dent on his cab’s roof and demanded Peter’s name and address. Claire said that she didn’t know it. She shoved some bills at him and quickly sloshed away as he stood cursing us in some foreign language.
By the time we got to my apartment, we were soaked and began stripping off our clothes. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Claire said.
“I’m sorry you did,” I returned. “I actually think you should have given the driver Peter’s name and address. He’s dangerous.”
Claire shook her head. “His rage is only for me. He’ll settle down. If the driver filed a police report, he could get fired. He works for the city. Besides, the cab company has insurance.”
I didn’t want to end our wonderful weekend with an argument. Peter had already dampened it enough. Neither Claire nor I felt in a mood to make use of our naked bodies so we just toweled off and went to bed. The idea of getting up early and going to work didn’t appeal to me but at least I wouldn’t be hung over.
The weather turned nastier and rain bombarded the dark window as wind-swept branches from a nearby tree slashed against the glass.
Amid brilliant flashes of lightning, I could see Claire staring at the ceiling with a pensive look. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer but after a particularly loud burst of thunder rattled the window, Claire said that she remembered a night like this from her childhood, when a hurricane was approaching their home. “For two days, it rained bullets from this scary black sky with this howling wind that split open trees.”
The hurricane missed their town by only a few miles. The next day her family went for a ride to see the destruction. When Claire saw all the homes in the neighboring town that were blown away, she kept thinking that it could have been their town, their home.
“After that, whenever thunder or lightning woke us up, Lydia, my little sister, and I used to run into our parents’ bedroom and sleep between them. But then one time I was awakened by something crawling around in my pajamas. It was my father’s hand. When he realized I was awake, he put my hand inside his pants and made me stroke him while my mother and sister slept beside us.”
She began to cry softly but continued. “When it happened again, I refused to go into their bedroom. I was terrified of the thunder and lightning but more terrified of him. But then he came into my room and put it into my mouth. He said that if I told my mother or anyone else that they wouldn’t believe me and that I would be whipped for making up lies.”
Claire began sobbing louder. “It’s okay,” I whispered, holding her closer and trying to comfort her.
She continued, “My mother often went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and passed by my room. My sister was afraid of the dark so we had a nightlight in the hall and sometimes my mother would look in on us when she passed by. Once when he was in bed with me, my mother got up. He held his hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t make a sound. She walked right by without looking in our room. I was panicked that she wouldn’t know. Didn’t she realize that my father wasn’t in bed next to her and wonder where he was? When she came back, I wrestled free and cried out, “Mommy! Help me!” She looked straight at me. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Then she turned and walked away. My father was furious and slapped me.
“The next morning, my mother was sick and didn’t come downstairs. She stayed in bed for two days and when she finally got up, she acted like nothing had happened. I was devastated. After that, he came in often, as if to punish me. Occasionally, he slapped and punched me but was careful never to leave bruises.”
Claire was crying loudly now and I wiped tears from her cheeks but she kept on talking. “Every day, I woke up determined to confront my mother but never got the courage. Finally, when I was sixteen, my father stopped doing me because he was now doing my younger sister. I couldn’t lie there and listen to him abusing her. I couldn’t turn away like my mother. So finally, I told my mother and mentioned the night I cried out to her. She denied it, called me a liar and told my father. He went into a rage and screamed that if I ever told anyone else, he would have me locked up in a nuthouse or sent to a home for juvenile delinquents. Then he beat me so hard that for the first time, I had bruises.”
Claire broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her but she wanted to continue. Her voice was a child-like whimper. “The next day, my gym teacher noticed the bruises when I was coming out of the shower. I was summoned to the assistant principal’s office. She was a large, tough woman and I was really scared because I couldn’t figure what I had done wrong. In her office was my gym teacher and they asked me how I had gotten the bruises. Finally, I now had the salvation I had been praying for. Just one word to them and the authorities would come and help out my sister and me. I desperately wanted the truth to come out of my mouth but all I heard my
self muttering was some crap about falling off my bike. Everything was fine at home, I insisted. Inside my head, I was screaming to myself, ‘No! Stop lying! For Lydia’s sake!’ But no matter how much I silently screamed at myself, I just kept on defending my father to them. That was my one chance for me, for Lydia, and I didn’t take it. Now, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about those ten minutes in that office. The bastard should be in jail but instead he’s a big man in the town, a proud husband and father.”
Claire sobbed heavily and struggled for breath. I held her in my arms like a child. When she finally regained her composure, I asked timidly, “How is your sister?”
“She’s okay, I guess,” said Claire. “She met a Good Ol’ Boy. They’re engaged to get married next June. She says that she will never have sex, ever, and just claim that they can’t have children.”
“He doesn’t mind?”
Claire glanced furtively around as if the lightening might be listening. “Well, it’s not like you’re going to be telling anyone back home. He’s in love with his best buddy. They go on fishing trips all summer and hunting trips all winter, and no one suspects a thing.”
Claire wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Sorry to put all this on you, but I thought you should know what kind of a woman you’re getting involved with.”
I kissed and hugged her. “I think I’m getting involved with a wonderful woman.”
Claire smiled weakly. Although the thunder and lightning continued, Claire seemed exhausted by her revelations and quickly drifted off to sleep. I lay there wondering if I would, if I ever could, open up and tell her about my childhood. I had held it inside of me for so long that I was afraid of what might happen if I let it out.
Falling in Love Page 12