by Roxy Harte
My teeth grind together hearing Jessica’s sons referred to as brats.
“I’m not sure why you believe my intention is greater than any other new girl in town. I want to make friends. And yes, she’s a few years younger than me but there aren’t many single girls in town to make friends with.” I’m trying to be cool but it’s difficult.
“Friendship?” She snorts.
“Yes ma’am.”
“That’s what they call it now?”
“Not to be disrespectful, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Mrs. Morrison.”
She winks at me. “I wasn’t born yesterday, my dear. Do you think that I don’t know a dyke from a femme from a straight girl? You are a dyke. And my dear Jessica is a kiki.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term.” I swallow hard, sweating bullets. I do not need to be told by this old dame to stay clear of Jessica and I know that’s what’s coming.
“Dyke or kiki?”
“Kiki,” I repeat and hate it that my voice cracks.
“Get a glass of water if you’d like, dear.”
She doesn’t have to offer twice. I’m out of the chair like a jackrabbit and into the kitchen, sorting through cabinets for a glass before she even finishes her sentence. I can hear her through the wall still prattling on.
“I should have offered the moment you arrived, considering the magnitude of the conversation we’re having. I suppose you’re not used to such directness.”
I return with a glass of water and sit back down.
“Kiki is a term from the fifties, back when I was a young girl. It’s what other lesbians called women who didn’t really fit into a category. Lesbians almost always chose to portray themselves as dyke or femme. Social identity was very important then.”
I slap my forehead. I knew that. But how does Mrs. Morrison know that?
“Poor Jessica really fits into neither category.”
I think about Jessica’s long blonde hair and pouty lips. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup but I definitely don’t see her as being any less than femme. I still don’t see why we’re having this conversation.
Mrs. Morrison reaches under her upholstered chair’s skirt hem and retrieves what appears to be a photo album that had been stashed there. She motions me nearer. “Few have seen what I am about to share with you, my dear.”
My dear? Oh. My. I feel as though I’m about to have a brick dropped on my head.
She opens the stiff pages, the plastic sleeves yellowed and unyielding with time. She points at a woman with dark black hair styled in a classic bob. Even though the photo is black and white, the deep colors of her lips suggest they were painted a deep, fire-engine red. She’s wearing a polka-dot dress and a three-quarter-sleeve sweater. She’s beautiful.
“Yes, very.”
Did I say that out loud? “Is that you?”
Mrs. Morrison smiles sadly and shakes her head. “Heavens, no. I was never what anyone would call pretty…let alone beautiful. This was my Margie.”
She turns the pages slowly and each one holds photos of the same woman—some poses staged, others more natural, a few photos taken in what was obviously a bar.
She points at the latter. “This was taken at the Rail Room in Kansas City. It was one of the few bars in the city women like us felt safe.”
Women like us. Oh god. “You?”
“Margie and I were lovers. No one still living knows about that time in my life.”
When she turns the page again it’s to a photo of a couple. Margie and a much younger Mrs. Morrison, looking like a much younger version of General Patton, and still as gruff and tough. I point. “That’s you?” Awe and shock are obvious in my voice. The memories this woman must have. The stories this woman could tell me about the lesbian culture she lived…
“Yes, yes.” She touches the two faces reverently. “We were so young then. So in love. So invincible.”
“You were a beautiful couple.” I know this love story doesn’t have a happy ending. I can tell by the heartbreak in her voice. I don’t want to ask. I can’t ask. God, I have to know, what happened to Margie?
“They beat her to death. Crowbars. Ball bats. There wasn’t anything left of her face or breasts or—” Her voice catches with a sob that seems as though it’s been building for over sixty years. “I’ll just say there was nothing left that identified her as female.”
“God. Oh god.” I gasp and clutch my chest. I realize suddenly tears are running down my face and I wipe them away but it does little good. I take several long swallows of water. “Who? Why?”
“I believe your generation calls it a hate crime. Of course the culprits were never found.” She shakes her head with disgust and slams the book closed.
She never wants me to step near her granddaughter again and I completely get that. Holy fuck. Shit. What am I going to tell Jessica?
“I walked away from that life, the lifestyle, the very day of her funeral. Of course it was a closed casket and few brave souls attended the memorial service. But I went. I said my goodbyes. It was all I could do not to crawl into that casket with her. And then I ran.” She wipes her face and releases a long breath. “I made a new life for myself. With a man. I gave birth to children.” She nods. “And I only told one soul about my taboo, secret past. Mister. Because he needed to know the truth. It wouldn’t have been fair to him to not know.”
The peculiar begins to make sense now—why she sought me out and wanted me to help around the farm. In some ways, I must remind her of her younger self. God, how I’d love to hear all of her old stories about that time in her life.
“I had a good life. It was different than the one I’d planned with Margie but I was able to find a small share of peace and happiness.”
I suddenly feel like confessor and I don’t like it. “And many more happy years to come, Mrs. Morrison.”
“I’m not so naïve. I’m to be eighty-eight on my next birthday. May not have too many left after that one.”
I’d have never guessed near that old. “You’re in fine health.”
“Pah.” She waves her hand in denial. “You’re changing the subject from what I called you here for.”
Jessica.
“Again, I ask your intentions, now that we can speak plainly. I’ve told you my secrets, now you tell me yours.”
I meet the old woman’s gaze. “I’m a fairly open book. Not much for keeping secrets.”
“So she knows about the women in New York? She knows you call yourself Danson there and Dapper Dan?”
Jesus. Are there no secrets in this town?
“Does she know about Janice?”
“I don’t know if she knows I legally changed my name from Denise to Danson, but the rest yes. This town’s gossip line never stops.”
“Tell me about it. In some ways it’s good, in others it’s horrible, but if you have a child you’re worried about it’s nice to have access to.”
“Even once the child is a grown woman?”
“Especially then.” Her gaze is as sharp as glass and I feel like if I move under her scrutiny I’ll be cut wide open.
“Does she know that you live with a man in New York City?”
“Just roommates!” I say, holding up my hands in defense.
She nods and bends over to retrieve something from her purse. Turns out not to be a dangerous weapon, just a phone. She looks at its screen then turns the screen for me to looks at. “Explain this.”
I have to squint to even make out what the picture she is showing me is of.
“If you touch the screen it will stretch the photo larger.”
It takes me a second to wrap my head around the fact an eighty-seven-year-old woman knows how to use a cell phone and I can’t even convince my mother to buy one.
One touch does it. Me wrapped around Shade like a monkey. My jaw drops. “How did you get this? Have you been spying on me?”
“Heavens, no. I don’t have the time or energy for such foolishness,
especially when photos can be forwarded all over town at the speed of light. I used to hate these things, but they’re damned useful. Don’t know how I ever lived without one before.”
I hand the phone back to her. “Easy to explain. That’s my roommate, Shade, and he drove a truck halfway across the country to bring me my stuff.”
“I see. You certainly caused a blip on the gossip line as you called it. For weeks there’s been speculation if you are still one hundred percent female or if you’ve had surgery and now the talk is whether you are a woman in love with this man or whether you had to have the surgery because you were actually a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. It’s quite a bit of talk for small-towned folks to wrap their heads around.”
“Maybe they should all shut up and mind their own business!” I stand, angry, almost to the point of being belligerent, but I hold my tongue for Jessica’s sake.
“I agree. But the point is that you are very close to dragging my granddaughter back into the town’s spotlight and I won’t have that. It almost destroyed her the first time, even though she brought that scorn onto herself, and now that she’s finally happy and smiling again—”
“You don’t want her destroyed as Margie was.”
“Exactly.”
I nod and am very sad to face that in my heart I agree. This town just isn’t ready for an out lesbian couple. “I’ll stay away from her.”
“No!” Mrs. Morrison jumps to her feet with the speed of a much younger woman.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve misunderstood. Everything. I want you to take her away from here. Take her to the city where she’s free to be herself. Introduce her to a hundred women, dykes and femmes, so that she might finally have a community to support her growth as she learns to face who she truly is inside.”
I’m stunned.
Chapter Thirteen
Blood and Other Messes
There are three police cruisers, lights flashing, surrounding my garage. This town doesn’t even own three police cruisers, which means they’ve called in county. I can’t park and jump out of my car fast enough. I start screaming “Shade?” as I run toward the building.
An officer stops me from crossing a yellow tape line.
“My friend’s inside!”
“And who are you?”
I automatically pull my wallet from my back pocket to offer up identification. “Danson O’Brian.”
He pulls me back a few feet and scans my ID with his flashlight. “Says New York City. Can you tell me what you’re doing so far from home?”
“This is my garage! Actually, it’s my dad’s garage and I’m here to help him because he’s in the hospital.”
“You’re Danni?”
“Yeesss,” I say with exaggerated relief. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Well that’s a very good thing.” He hands me back my New York driver’s license. “We thought you might be missing. Or worse.”
“I’m fine. I was at a friend’s house all evening. Mrs. Morrison. She’s old and sometimes I help her out. Can you please tell me where my friend is?”
I hear a banging nearby and turn to find Shade in the back of a police cruiser. “What’s going on? That’s my friend! Why is he in police custody?”
“Just collecting facts. Would you prefer to be called ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’, ma’am?”
“Sir is fine.” I’m actually surprised he asked since we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere but I’m glad to see that some transgender correctness has managed to find its way out here.
“And you believe this gentleman would mean you no harm?”
“Of course not! He’s my roommate in New York. He helped me move my stuff back here.”
He beckons another officer to release Shade. Thank god.
Shade joins us and I wrap my arm around him. “Are you all right?”
“My pride is injured but I understand that I needed to be detained until the police could determine where you were and if you were alive. Good thing you aren’t fucking dead, because I am not going to prison for you. Do you know what happens in prison to boys as pretty as me?”
I raise my hands to shut him up. “Can someone please tell me what caused such alarm that you thought I was missing or dead?”
The police officer lifts the tape and leads me to the garage. The plate glass window of the waiting room is gone, smashed in, glass everywhere. And a dark, slick liquid covers both of the old vinyl sofas. “Is that oil?”
“Blood,” the police officer says in a flat tone. “Yet to be determined if it is human or animal, but you can see our concern was appropriately based since you were missing.”
My eyes go to the white wall at the back of the room I recently painted. The same blood as on the sofas spells out the words “Die Dyke”. My knees go weak and I sink to the ground.
“Danni?”
I hear Jessica screaming my name and look over my shoulder to see her running up the sidewalk. I manage to get back on my feet and run toward her. If it were a movie the grab and hug would be slow motion but since it’s my life it is a fast collide of flesh and we are suddenly wrapped around each other. Kissing. But it’s not romantic. It’s messy. Tears and fear make everything messy. I assure her, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. You’re white as a ghost. What happened?”
I suddenly remember Mrs. Morrison’s story and back away from Jessica as fast as I did the electric fence.
“Danni? What’s wrong?”
“We can’t be seen in public, not like this.”
“No. I was wrong. If we’re going to date, I don’t want to hide it like a dirty secret.”
“You were one hundred percent right. Shit happened tonight because I’m a dyke and this town isn’t ready to come out of the dark ages.” I keep backing away. “Go home to your boys.” The panic in my chest multiplies as I realize that just by talking to her I'm not only endangering her, but her sons as well. “You didn’t leave them home alone, right?”
“Of course not! I’d never leave them alone. A neighbor is with them. When I saw the lights and realized it was the garage, I had to come.”
“I’m fine. I’m okay. Go back to your house. If we’re lucky there wasn’t time for anyone to videotape that hug and marathon text it all across town.”
“Video? Marathon text? What are you talking about? You’re talking crazy.”
“No. Not crazy. This town is crazy.” I keep backing up. “You need to go home. You can’t ever be seen talking to me.” I motion between us. “This can’t happen again. It’s too dangerous.”
“Would you at least tell me what happened? Why are the police here?”
“Vandals. Threats. This town showing its true colors. Will you just go?”
She gasps and I see the fear in her eyes. She looks like she’s going to cry as she wraps her arms around herself in a tight hug. “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Jessica.”
I walk away as fast as I can.
“I'm still coming by tomorrow,” she calls after me.
I break into a run, distancing us, praying to God no one else heard her.
When I get back to Shade and the police, I’m in time to hear the officer telling Shade that the blood has been confirmed to be not human. “Probably pig’s blood or cow’s blood. There’s a packing house a few miles south.”
“That’s disgusting.” He makes a face.
“At least no one died here,” I say.
“You should probably stay at a hotel tonight,” the officer continues.
The closest hotel is near the interstate and I’m not getting run out of town. “Uh-uh, not unless you tell me the upstairs is a crime scene too.”
“I’m not telling you that, sir. Now that we have confirmed that it was animal blood, we can release the scene, and we can’t keep you from staying here, but under the circumstances, I have to advise against it.”
<
br /> “Because they might come back?”
“Exactly.”
“Then I’ll be here to identify them.”
Shade tries to pull me aside but I don’t let him. “Are you sure about this, Danni? Staying here?”
“I’m not afraid. It is not 1950 anymore. It’s a new era, and it’s time to stand up and make people see that we have as much right to be here as they do.”
“Right on that soapbox with you, buddy, but tomorrow is another day.”
“I’m not running. I’m done running.” I turn to the officer. “How soon can I start cleanup?”
“You can begin as soon as you want. We have all the evidence we’ll ever get. The detectives went over the place with a fine-tooth comb and we’ll do all we can to find the perpetrators who did this. Do you have any enemies in town? Have you had any recent trouble?”
“No. No enemies, no trouble.”
The officer scribbles something in his notebook before tucking it into his pocket. “If you think of anything…”
“Yep.” Like I’m not going to be thinking constantly. Every conversation I’ve had since hitting town, every person I’ve met. Who would do this?
Shade jars me from my thoughts. “I am not sticking around to see the tragic ending to this story.”
“What?”
He gives me a look that says exactly what.
“You’re leaving? Now?”
“You betcha. And if you were smart you’d beg me to reload your shit and get you the hell outta here.” He heads outside.
I chase after him. “I can’t go. I can’t run.” It dawns on me I just ran from Jessica. Just quit. To protect her.
“She’ll never fall in love with you.
“Jessica?”
“It’s always about pussy with you, Dan. Always.” He climbs into the truck and slams the door shut. He starts the engine. He isn’t right, not about me, not this time.
Frustrated, I scream at him through the closed window and over the loud idle of the truck’s engine. “Idiot! I’ve already decided I can’t see Jessica. I can’t see any woman in this town!”