She gave a distant smile to the married man and sidled her way between the tightly spaced tables. At lunch time, Gracie's was always overflowing with coworkers crowded around the little tables to drink coffee and eat muffins. After work, however, each table had a couple. The closest pair seemed about to propose marriage given the looks they exchanged. Just beyond them a swarthy woman with short hair pulled back tightly to a thick twist of curls was definitely making a move—a single finger traced a line across her brunette companion's hand. Even from here Karita could tell both women were flushed. She felt more than a little envious. Men were routinely persistent but women hadn't shown her nearly as much interest.
She hoped she wasn't giving off some kind of "available and ready to breed" vibe that brought the men sniffing but sent the lesbians dashing for cover. The per capita population of lesbians in Denver seemed much lower than in Minneapolis, and the number of women who looked like lesbians, but weren't, complicated the tentative dance of flirtation. She volunteered with several women who laughingly called themselves "false positives" and had told her she was, without a doubt, a "false negative."
The same problem had plagued her in the Peace Corps. She hadn't attracted many dates there initially either. "You're too gorgeous," a friend had declared, adding, "The dykes watch the really hot guys hit on you and get turned down every time. They think they don't stand a chance either."
"That makes no sense whatsoever," Karita had protested vehemently. She was a lesbian so of course she turned down one-hundred percent of the guys who asked her out. Half of them accused her of being a lesbian, so why couldn't the lesbians figure it out? She'd finally convinced one or two women she wasn't straight—and proved it satisfactorily in private. After the Peace Corps there had been Mandy, of course. She pushed away a fleeting recollection of loving eyes gone hard as flint, of warm embraces turned stiff and cold.
Since moving to Denver almost two years ago she'd made friends, but hadn't met anyone who made her think beyond tomorrow. She gave the elegant, dark-haired woman one last look. Instead of dark and sexy and ready for love, she thought, as her gaze traveled to the empty seat at her table, she had Brent. Sweet, lovable Brent. The Brents of the world were her penance for deciding initially that the law office was too conservative to comfortably come out. She was no longer sure it wasn't safe to tell her coworkers, most of whom she liked, but other than heading off the Brents, there wasn't really any reason to discuss her love life. No girlfriend to bring to parties, no partner to introduce to her boss.
If she kept standing here her coffee would get cold and Brent would die of old age. She took a deep breath as she faced Brent, her little speech at the ready.
He got up to pull out her chair for her with another courtly bow. He deserved a nice girl, he really did, but it needed to be one who didn't have a vague sense of pity for him at his lack of female anatomy.
She sat, gave him a conspiratorial smile and began. "I can't tell you how relaxing it is to be able to have coffee with a friend. All too often an invitation to coffee leads to a request to date and when you work with someone it can get so awkward. But you're different, Brent, and I really appreciate…"
Brent would get over it, Karita told herself as she left Gracie's alone and without any future date to worry about. Fortunately it was Friday and he'd have the whole weekend to recover. Maybe by Monday all would be well. She really believed he'd be some lucky girl's gallant knight on a white steed soon enough.
She reclaimed her reliable Subaru from the parking garage, emerging from its depths into sunshine streaming between the clouds rushing east toward Kansas. A gap of blue sky was spreading out from the Front Range of the Rockies, which loomed over the entire western horizon. Shafts of gold edged with blue dazzled her eyes—her grandmother would have called it gylden lyset, or something equally lyrical. Her lapses into her native Norwegian had often been for poetic purposes, when English was too harsh.
The temperature rose quickly, drying the wet streets. Experience had taught her to avoid the crammed freeways to get from work to the shelter on Friday nights. Surface streets were slower but prettier and she could enjoy the sunlight all the more. The Escort's air-conditioning had given up the ghost last year, so she dangled one arm out the open window and listened to the radio tuned to the public station out of Boulder even though, inexplicably, the signal turned to static whenever she was pointed due north.
Traffic was sluggish near Coors Field, where a Rockies game was in progress. She had no interest in baseball beyond the knowledge that the Rockies were chasing a pennant, which made every game important. Regardless of the outcome, the shelter was always busy after big sporting events, and tonight would be no exception.
She turned onto the quiet residential street where no sign proclaimed what occupied the rambling farm-style house on the corner. Its whitewash and plank exterior was at odds with the cookie cutter stucco covering the tract homes that had overrun an old family farm. She liked the old house, with its sprawling porch, creaking floors and unexpected rooms.
As requested by the shelter director, Karita made a point of trying to park someplace new each time as the chief complaint of their neighbors was loss of the parking spaces in front of their own homes. Emily had enough worries.
She got out of the car, then paused to catch her breath. Even after two years she occasionally forgot about the altitude and didn't breathe in deeply enough. Her head cleared after a few good, deep breaths and she resumed her hurried steps around the old house. She almost knocked Emily over when she opened the back door.
"I'm so glad you're here! You're early, sweetie, bless you." Emily's long arms were full of linens, leaving only her bright green eyes visible over the top of the pile. "Could you make up the Chocolate Factory room?"
Karita shoved her belongings into the nearest locker, made sure it latched and pocketed the key. So much for hoping she'd have time to get out of her work suit and into some comfortable jeans and a cotton top. Maybe there'd be a chance after this client was settled. She'd not only be more comfortable, the clients would be more at ease with her as well. "Absolutely."
"Mom plus two, one can share with mom and one in a crib. I can't get a name out of her, but you give it a try. They're in the common room watching TV."
"I'll show her where the room is and give her the tour," Karita assured her. "How's it been since Tuesday?"
"Business is depressingly brisk. I have been working on the same grant application for two weeks now and we really could use the money."
"I wish I had any talent for it." To Karita, Emily looked more tired than usual. Her round face was pale, and a deep, worried line creased between her brows, making her look at least ten years older than her thirty-eight years. Karita resisted the urge to tuck a few silver hairs behind Emily's ears with the rest of her unruly black hair—they were actually rather endearing. At the moment Emily was the spitting image of the photo of her mother she kept on her office wall. Even though Karita thought mother and daughter were both handsome women, pointing out the likeness was probably not a good idea. She kept her hands to herself.
"You're too good with clients to waste you on paperwork. I don't know what I'd do without you." Emily bustled away to answer the ringing phone, her footsteps heavy.
If there was a way Karita could afford to live on what Emily could afford to pay, she'd have gladly taken any job at the shelter, but economic necessities like food, gas, insurance and home repairs dictated her enjoyable, but not terribly fulfilling day job at the law office Volunteering for Emily made much more sense, even if it wasn't the total hours Emily really needed. There were other volunteers, too, and the camaraderie was another huge reward for the time she spent, reminding her of the four years in the Peace Corps. She was part of something larger than herself. Between the time here and time at the animal rescue near home, she was well pleased with her life. She had all she needed, didn't she?
She quickly made up the full-size bed for mom and the older child,
and slipped faded Pooh and Piglet sheets onto the crib mattress. She set out a few fresh diapers and wipes, toothpaste and brushes, shampoos and tiny soaps all donated from hotel freebies, and went to find the family so she could assess clothing sizes for sleepwear.
Just before entering the common room she took a deep breath and schooled her smile. Even so, it nearly slipped at the purpled swelling around one eye and vivid bruises on the client's slender arms. The girl, with tight red braids halfway down her back, had a vacant expression that tightened Karita's throat. She couldn't be more than five and she'd already seen too much of life's ugliness.
"Hi, I'm Karita. Do you want to see where you and the kids will be sleeping?"
Though Karita kept her distance, the child cowered closer to her mother, who winced as she rocked the baby on her lap. "Yeah, sure, I guess. I don't know…if we'll be staying. If I'm gone all night, it'll be… Maybe I should call his mother…"
Throughout the woman's disjointed comments Karita kept up soothing, easy patter as she led them to the Chocolate Factory room. "It's really no bother, see, everything is all ready, so you can stay the night, and the kids can get a good sleep. They need that. The door locks, see? Your daughter is so polite, and she takes after you, doesn't she? The baby's also got the same red hair, so cute on a little one. I know, maybe he won't be so angry in the morning, but if he is you need to have a plan for the kids. Do you like the sheets? They're my favorite. Most kids love Piglet and Pooh. What's the baby's name?"
She was shameless and she knew it, but she was following the guidelines of Emily's training to the letter. Many women did go back, over and over, to men who beat them, but children were one of the consistent, compelling wedges the shelter workers had. If substance abuse wasn't in the picture, most women responded to the need to do what was best for their kids long before they would think to save themselves.
Pauline, her easy smile not quite overcoming her tired eyes, arrived with another woman and child while Karita was still chatting with her own charge. The two clients ignored each other, and their obvious bruises, which was fairly typical. Their babies were close in age which made for common ground. Both seemed to be the type that took it in silence, but they always had to be on the watch for the rare woman who wanted to pass along the abuse to the first victim she could find.
"It'll be busy tonight," Pauline said, pitching her voice low so the clients wouldn't overhear. She rubbed a hand over her dark face, and Karita wondered how long the shift at the hospital had been before Pauline had arrived here. "There's some big NASCAR event at Bandemere." In jeans and a roomy men's polo shirt, Pauline was one of the biggest false positives Karita had ever met.
"And there's a Rockies game. We might as well make up all the rooms."
"I can stay a couple more hours tonight—Jerry's off to another Interfaith Council meeting. Why don't you go change out of your monkey suit? I have an eye on things in here." Pauline shooed her toward the kitchen. "Start making popcorn or something."
"What a fine idea."
Karita did just that, comfortable that all was well. Anticipatory snacks prepared, there seemed nothing more to do for a few minutes, so she went in search of Emily.
Emily was leaning tiredly on one elbow as she scrawled something on an intake form. The cramped office had once upon a time been a walk-in pantry, and was just large enough for a tiny desk and several file cabinets. "What'd you think?"
"I'd be surprised if she's on something." Karita considered the kinds of comments her client had made. "He sounds like a weekend alcoholic and when he's had a bad week she can't do anything right. The little girl is traumatized but this is nothing new to her. She's been in other shelters."
"I thought so too. Any luck getting a name for Child Welfare when they get here? A friend dropped her off and I didn't see who that was either. Probably someone who has been here before." Emily pushed her wire-rimmed glasses back up her nose, a nose she herself had once described as so pert it ruined her Big Ol' Dyke persona.
"The baby's name is Lila and the little girl is Jenny." Karita grinned. "It might not be her jacket, but Jenny's collar has Jones written inside it."
Emily grinned back. "I don't know what I love more, your body or your brain."
Karita flushed slightly and knew it showed. "I learned that kind of detective work from the best there is."
The doorbell rang and their smiles faded. A glance at the closed-circuit monitor showed a uniformed female police officer and a woman crying into a tissue.
Emily sighed. "At least this one, we'll know who she is."
"I'm pretty sure she's been here before." No kids, Karita didn't have to add. No kids, so she'd probably go back to him.
The Rockies had lost badly to their chief rival in the race for a division championship. Karita didn't give a rancid flea for the sport, but the game's importance had been beaten into two more women by the time it was midnight.
"If there weren't any pro sports, we'd have half the business." Pauline poured herself coffee as they all took advantage of a brief respite. She peered into the cup. "When was this made? It's blacker than I am."
"My fault," Karita admitted. "I lost track of how many scoops. It's a bit…strong."
Pauline gave her one of those looks that no doubt quieted unruly patients in an instant. "Do I need to get you some instructional aids for counting? This coffee is like pudding."
"I didn't notice. No wonder I feel wide awake." Emily looked up wearily from her almost empty cup. "If there weren't sporting events, there'd just be a different excuse. We'll only have half the business when half the men stop thinking they can use women for punching bags."
"Not just men." Lucy, who had arrived while Karita was settling in the latest arrival, rinsed her mug and set it in the drainer. She tucked a strand of sandy blond hair behind one ear, and a minute rainbow earring glinted in the light. "I guess it makes me sexist, but when it's a woman beating on her partner I feel ashamed. Dykes are supposed to be…better than that."
Emily got up to drape a sympathetic arm around Lucy's shoulder. They were of a similar height, but Lucy was lean as a cheetah. "I know what you mean. And the one tonight—same old thing. I'm drunk and you're to blame for everything."
Pauline propped her head on her hand. "At least it's rare, by comparison. You'd think I'd have seen enough here to put me off men, but oh well."
"You got a good one to go home to," Karita said. "Given the stats I just read for black women getting married these days—"
"Believe me," Pauline said. "I make sure he knows he's special and all those parishioners know he's very married."
Lucy headed out of the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "He better treat you like a queen, because you are one, sisterfriend. At least you have someone warm to cuddle up to at night."
Emily and Karita raised their mugs in a hear-hear toast. The doorbell rang, and Karita rose to respond. "I'll bring them in, Em."
By two a.m. the night volunteers had arrived and settled. The house was quiet when Emily and Karita slipped out the kitchen door into the garage.
"How far away is your car?" Emily's trim minivan occupied the attached garage, along with extra cribs, rollaways and stacks of household supplies.
"I'm actually a block over. I didn't want Mrs. Carruthers in your face again and that was the only place open."
"You're too good to me," Emily said softly.
In the harsh garage lighting, the stray silver hairs at Emily's temples had a glow of their own, and the urge to tuck them away, to comfort Emily's weariness with a simple gesture, was almost overwhelming. They both knew the healing power of human touch, that a hug or a sympathetic squeeze of the shoulder could do wonders for a person. Stopping at a hug was the problem. Maybe that was because it took more than a hug to counteract what they had seen over the course of the evening.
Karita's heart started to pound and her palms were slick. How often had they agreed that nothing was going to happen, and would tonight be the nigh
t they actually stuck to their intentions?
Emily unlocked the passenger door and what might have been an accidental brush of her forearm against Karita's sent a flash of fire all the way to Karita's toes. She hadn't meant the contact and she was pretty sure Emily hadn't either but there was no doubt they meant the sweltering, gasping kiss that they shared seconds later.
"We can't do this anymore," Emily managed between groans. One hand gripped Karita's waist while the other grappled at the van's sliding door and finally shoved it open.
Karita scrambled up onto the bench seat, pulling Emily after her. "Why shouldn't we? It feels so good, after a night like tonight. It feels good to both of us."
Emily groaned again as Karita found the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up. "I'm your boss."
"If you paid me you'd be my boss."
"Makes no difference—holy Christ." She shuddered as Karita ran her nails up her back. "Honest, I wasn't thinking about this, I didn't—"
"Shut up, Em," Karita said before another near-bruising kiss. "We're not at work now."
"No, we're in the backseat of my van and I want to touch you so bad—"
"It's okay." Karita unhooked Emily's bra before pulling down the zipper on her own jeans. She said truthfully, "If I'd planned this I'd have shaved my legs."
A laugh rumbled in Emily's chest and her hand slipped down to help Karita squirm out of her pants.
"Touch me," Karita breathed.
"Baby, yes."
The shudder was mutual and Emily smothered Karita's little cry with a kiss. Touching was good, and it could be fast, even rough, the way Emily was inside her now. There could be raging emotions behind the need and still be healthy. Karita gave herself to the flush of desire, letting things she knew write themselves again on the surface of her skin. Love didn't have to include pain. Women could be fierce and strong and not hurt each other.
She knew why Emily was like this because she also needed the same thing, and right now. It was dehumanizing to ignore split lips and bruises, and what had been done to the women and children in the shelter wasn't human either. Emily, inside her, kissing her, their matching heartbeats—that was human. Vulnerability without shame. Intimacy and passion that wasn't taken by force. Together, because it was what they both wanted, they reached a moment when nothing but vulnerability could suffice. Karita couldn't hold back a sharp cry and she felt, rather than heard, Emily's low groan of understanding pleasure.
The Kiss That Counted Page 2