Sappho's Overhead Projector

by Bonnie J. Morris

  Two hours later, drunk on a second martini assembled from one of Isabel’s special mixes stocked in her dollhouse-sized refrigerator, Hannah called the Snerd. “How do you break a combination lock?”

  Silence. Then, “Last time it was cloning the dead from drool. Now it’s safecracking. Can’t you get a job?”

  “I had one,” Hannah snarled. “Teaching women’s history. Remember? That job disappeared. I’m in exile, doing what I can. Listen, I can’t explain what this is all about; just know I’m saving books right now. Books that might have a particular meaning for young women on the verge of coming out.”

  “Books you wish that you had read in college? What’s driving you to do this?” It was unusual for the Snerd to ask Hannah’s opinion, so she considered her response carefully for a quiet moment. The line between them, Washington to Oakland, crackled and hummed.

  “Well, what are you doing in that lab?” Hannah finally asked, knowing Jade couldn’t reveal her protocol.

  “I can’t spill the protocol, dope, but you know. Trying to find a cure for a certain kind of human suffering.”

  “Exactly,” Hannah shouted. “I can’t spill my details either. I’m also trying to find a cure for human suf-fering. We both went into work that has a purpose. Mine doesn’t have a lab.”

  And with that, the Overhead Projector turned on. The wall opposite Hannah’s sofabed shimmered with an unexpected slide show: Hannah and Jade “The Snerd” in college, friends, not lovers. But that year Hannah had been in love with Jade Wing. And by some miracle of timing they had studied the work of Wu Zao, the great lesbian poet of China, in the one class they shared: a multicultural women’s studies course which for Jade was a nice break from premed labs. For Hannah, it was an awakening to women’s history.

  And on the day their professor, a salty older butch named Helene Barrad, read aloud Wu Zao’s nineteenth-century love poem, “For the Courtesan Ch’ing Lin,” Hannah had also awakened to the possibility of desire. Now Sappho’s overhead projector showed Hannah and the Snerd open-mouthed in their seats, legs jiggling nervously from their worn Adidas to their parted knees, as Dr. Barrad intoned these lines:

  One smile from you when we meet,

  And I become speechless and forget every word . . .

  You glow like a perfumed lamp

  In the gathering shadows . . .

  I want to possess you completely—

  Your jade body

  And your promised heart.

  Hannah had leaned across the aisle to whisper, “Your jade body,” and the Snerd poked her with a mechanical pencil, hissing, “Shut up.” Hannah scribbled on a corner of torn notebook paper, Do you believe in reincarnation? You could be Wu Zao, and Jade wrote back, I am a Presbyterian. And you are no courtesan Ch’ing Lin. Plus, Hannah, for the last time: I. Am. STRAIGHT!

  On the back of the Snerd’s note there were three figures: notes from chem class. Even that day, as Hannah had dreamed of desire and seduction, Jade had been elsewhere, scribbling formulae on her notepad, memorizing not poetry but the periodic table of the elements. It was that familiarity with numbers and symbols that Hannah needed now. Those numbers, those three numbers. She could almost see those numbers. But just then the slide show ended.

  Their phone conversation resumed in the here and now.

  “See, there’s a padlock around these books. A combination lock. Wouldn’t that be three numbers? 9, 10, 7? A three-part code? You’re the formula expert. I’m stumped. I can’t guess it.”

  “Yes, a three-part combination would release the tumblers, and no, I can’t offer you any help beyond that, darling. I’m trying to get a grant. I can’t be cracking safes in federal buildings. Look, call me in daylight sometime. Why are you always up at one in the morning?”

  Hannah put the phone back on her nightstand. As she did, a tiny piece of paper blew off the tabletop and onto her blanket. It was the number of the bathroom pay phone, which she had copied down back in the fall and tried calling from her own apartment to see if it truly was in service.

  It blazed at her like lightning now. That number held the code.

  Then the phone rang again in Hannah’s apartment: The Snerd, calling back. She lifted the phone to her ear.

  “Forgot to tell you,” whispered her old friend. “That strand of hair you sent? I had it tested. It must have come into the Library pressed between the pages of a really old book. That’s the only explanation, because—”

  And she told Hannah what she’d learned.

  • • •

  The next day, trembling, Hannah stayed after work, slipped into the loading dock, and hid under the old glue machine with a door-sized piece of cardboard over her body until the lights went out and the last worker had departed. She listened for any sound or sign of a remaining staff member: papers being shuffled, keys on a belt, a cleared throat. After thirty full minutes of silence, she crept out and found the coffee table (flecked with crumbs). Beneath it, shoved one foot back where Jay had forgotten all about it, was Jordan’s crate.

  The padlock was an ordinary one and secured the box to a heating pipe. She knelt before the crate. Three numbers. Her first instinct was to go to the obvious. 3-0-1. The section of the local library where, at fourteen, she’d first found books about lesbians, that day she’d spotted Jordan Matthews lurking, one shelf over, when both their home area codes were 301.

  But the padlock wouldn’t budge. 301 was wrong.

  Her mind raced across history. Three numbers representing lesbians. Numbers that meant lesbian books? Which book titles included numbers? Her anxiety turned swiftly to affection as she made a mental list of titles in Jordan’s collection: Rita Mae Brown, Six of One. Adrienne Rich, Twenty-one Love Poems. Red Arobateau, Six Stories. But no. 6-21-6 failed.

  Then she turned to the phone booth’s number— much more than three single numbers, but in three clear parts: 202-554-4876. This had to contain the solution, and she stared at it blurrily until one possibility emerged. The numbers in each section added up to something else, creating a second list of three. Two plus 0 plus 2. 5 plus 5 plus 4. 4 plus 8 plus 7 plus 6. She added and scribbled, then sucked in her breath, hopeful.

  Now she had: 4, 14, 25.

  That was it.

  She was sure, now, her fingers spinning confidently. But the lock stayed closed. Not fair! her heart cried out. I know it’s the phone number! Three parts! I figured it out! Why won’t it work? I’m losing time here! Overhead— Sappho— Isabel— help me!

  She shut her eyes. Then Hannah understood. She had to add those numbers one more time. Four, 14, 25 should be 4, then 1 plus 4, then 2 plus 5— making the absolute final reduction 4, 5, 7. Was that it?

  It was. The lock sprang open in her hand, and with it a sigh of impossible relief from the fluttering books inside.

  Now Hannah had to think and move fast. These books had to be scooped out and hidden somewhere else that night, and the padlock closed again. There were at least fifty paperback books, fortunately not as heavy as their hardcover sisters, those books meant for off-site storage that Hannah had instead lugged home. She had two shopping bags from Trader Joe’s stuffed under her jacket, as well as her backpack, and quickly spread them out and began apportioning books in each. Even in the urgency of this mission, she couldn’t help feeling awed affection for each classic: the Mexican edition of Rita Mae Brown’s Rubyfruit Jungle, its Spanish title Frutos de Rubi; Katherine Forrest’s Curious Wine.

  Then, with backpack full and a bag slung over each shoulder, Hannah moved quietly to the door, which was of course locked now but, thankfully, opened again from the inside. It wasn’t late. There were still many Library staff about, plus early evening security guards coming on shift. Hannah made sure her ID badge was visible as she stepped into the corridor. Now, where to stash the gold mine?

  The answer was absurdly obvious: her own office desk. Aurora left early every day, so that was no concern, but what about the other archivists? Hannah decided to take the stairs, thoug
h her hip sockets ached already from the weight of books distributed around her middle-aging body. When had she last worked out in a gym? Up. Up. She’d better start lifting weights again if she was going to reshelve all these books at some mystical point in the future. Her knees creaked. But as she rounded the final corner to reach her own floor, she distinctly felt one of the books in her knapsack shift forward and pat her on the back.

  No one around.

  Go.

  Feeling like she was in a complex Hollywood movie (Harry Potter? Night at the Museum? The Pink Panther?), Hannah sidestepped down the hall to her office area, key between her fingers. The lights were off— an excellent sign. She was alone! Quickly, she unlocked the door and then locked it again behind her, keeping the light switch off and taking silent but giant steps toward her work cubicle.

  Problem: in this era of digital storage, Hannah’s desk had only two drawers. Not nearly enough room for fifty books.

  There was, however, a file cabinet that no one ever used in the supply closet. Hannah noticed it each time she went in there for a fresh pen or photocopier paper. But what if her coworkers thought to peek into that file cabinet one day? She’d have to risk it, with some sort of disguise. Hannah moved the books to the closet, realizing the irony of bold lesbian lives temporarily being forced “back in the closet” in order to survive. How often had that happened to books, or authors, or actual women? This will be the last time, I promise you, she thought. She hoped.

  It was easy enough to line the empty file cabinet with books. Next, she took sheets of light blue paper, which were hardly ever used in the photocopier, and covered the books, several inches high. On top of that she stacked accounting forms, old posters from the Christmas exhibit and, finally, open cardboard boxes full of magic markers, erasers and rubber bands. There! No one would guess, if they ever went into the file cabinet drawers at all, that Jordan Matthews’s life as a desperate young reader and book thief was secretly waiting there, waiting for release and redistribution.

  Hannah refolded the empty shopping bags and left them in her desk, shouldered her regular work briefcase and walked out of her office, locking the door securely behind her. She waved calmly at coworkers emerging after late workdays from their own offices: “Have a good night.” But what might they have been up to, staying late after work? Who really knew?

  On the ground floor, just before the exit where she would surrender her (empty) workbag to be searched, the haunted bathroom beckoned. Hannah hesitated. She’d had enough. But she could hear the pay phone ringing faintly. Grinding her teeth, she stepped inside and seeing only normal and pristine emptiness, reached for the phone.

  They were all cheering her, whistling and hooting, a chorus of butch voices from the literary past. It was another party of the banned authors, the ones who had written the books Hannah had saved.

  “Yes, you saved us,” shouted one. “Good job!” “But it’s so cramped in this file drawer!” teased another. Hannah heard corks popping, backs being slapped, the smack of blown kisses. “Mmwah!”

  The phone abruptly went dead. Now the ringing began directly in Hannah’s ears. She dropped the receiver and backed away, holding her head. The light in the bathroom changed to amber, to gold; and then Sappho was at the sink, unfolding her wings.

  “Go home and sleep your best,” said Sappho. “Prepare yourself for the Grand Reshelving. It will take place on March 8, International Women’s Day.” She drew into herself and, just before she disappeared, one long wing brushed against the sink. In that act of contact between the fixed and the possible, Hannah understood who, or what, had left behind one dark hair in that sink. It came from Sappho’s wing; and only another wing, Jade Wing, the Snerd, would ever know the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  The Grand Reshelving

  March 8, International Women’s Day.

  It was two weeks before the cherry blossoms would burst into soft beauty, ringing the monuments and luring so many tourists the Tidal Basin could not contain their numbers. Three weeks before Passover and the storyline of Hannah’s foremothers. The eighth of March was not a women’s day for Americans alone, but a date for the women of the world. Still not a “real” holiday, though, on the U.S. federal calendar, so Hannah had to go to work, pretending to be normal, expecting to stay late. The Grand Reshelving had to be done at an hour she couldn’t imagine, since it did not exist in fixed time. Through the long day of assigned errands, she avoided the ground-floor bathroom.

  Then, after work, having hidden in the supply closet barely breathing until receding shadows told her it was dark in Washington, Hannah carefully retrieved the books that she had hidden in that closet and in her desk, adding them to the books hidden below her bed since fall, which she had stuffed into her backpack and brought back in over a series of days.

  She awaited the call, that she knew would come on the pay phone, and readied the odd tools at her disposal: extra keys and ID cards, soft shoes that wouldn’t squeak on stairs or in remote rooms, a ridiculous but somehow sexy face mask she’d bought at the Spy Museum, a penlight, two book-bags and her camping backpack frame, now each bulging with the paperbacks designated for shredding and recycling. That Jordan’s donation would get to the right girls, once positioned on some magic shelf, she was certain. The banned authors had assured her this was so.

  When the halls sounded absolutely silent, Hannah began her fateful walk down several flights of stairs, and approached the women’s bathroom with her packs.

  No one was there, of course, and she settled into the stall closest to the pay phone, with one glance at her watch. Five hours left in March 8, Eastern Standard Time. Resting, then, on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, alert for any sound or movement— mice or security, phone-ring or federal building alarm— Hannah had all the time in the world to consider how many women had spent worried hours camped on bathroom floors. In such cramped, concerned vigilance, the homeless and addicted, the refugee and runaway had spent their harrowing nights of solitude and fear; in bathrooms like this one, desperate women had given birth, or miscarried alone, or overdosed. Women’s history offered a sobering review of how every society treated its least valued: women and children first!— unless you’re poor, or brown, or undocumented, or hooked on drugs, or underage, or queer . . .

  Her mind wandered to more pleasant associations of women spending time in bathrooms. During the 1980s, every Monday night she and the women at Sappho’s Bar had gathered to eat popcorn and watch Cagney & Lacey, the great female cop show which inevitably featured a moment of bathroom office work. “Conference, Christine!” Tyne Daly (as Lacey) would summon Sharon Gless (as Cagney), and the two would slam into the station ladies’ room— where they had plenty of privacy, as the only two women, seemingly, employed as New York’s Finest. The bathroom break allowed moral confrontations and abiding love pledged between two women on a job. In those episodes, American viewers glimpsed answers to questions percolating in a so-called postfeminist society: What are women doing in those long bathroom breaks? Applying makeup? Plotting castration? Nope: just figuring out how to deal with workplace sexism while seeming apolitical; how to balance doing the job twice as well to prove their femaleness is not a burden, with transcending harassment, low pay, danger, insult.

  How they had cheered those bathroom scenes at Sappho’s!

  And— but the phone was ringing.

  • • •

  She leaped up, stumbling on one numb leg, banging into every sink in the lurch towards instruction. The phone felt warm, and emanated a smoky scent, as if it had been roasted over a campfire. She swallowed. “Hello.”

  “May 6, 1933!” crackled a horrible voice, and in the receiver, rushing toward her ear, the roar of a Nazi rally, the flames of burning books. Anguished voices crying for lost literature, yet unaware that what was still to come was burning flesh. This was the night of Magnus Hirschfeld’s archive being burned, the great assembled library of gay and lesbian studies that existed at the time of H
itler’s rise. For decades, the Institute for Sex Research in Berlin had been a focus for sex research by progressive scholars and sex activists. Perhaps 20,000 visitors a year came through the research library for its sources on the social acceptance of gay people and greater equality for women. Then, suddenly, in February of 1933 the Nazi Party banned publications on sex and gay advocacy groups. That May, German students announced their attack on the Institute. Thousands of Nazi youth jeered and cheered as “decadent” literature was pulled from the Institute’s shelves, thrown into the streets, and set on fire. Gone in an instant were the carefully assembled bits and shards of what was known about gay lives— 20,000 books and journals and photographs of LGBT lives. No scholar would have access to that knowledge again, or touch those pages; on that night in the Tiergarten of Berlin 40,000 mind-maddened onlookers championed the burning of “Jewish” literature. That moment presaged the burning, too, of gay and lesbian bodies, soon marched to concentration camps. No Overhead could change what Germany had done, with willing help from other fascist powers. In the great mourning of those lost lives was there even a moral space to crawl into, just to mourn the loss of those gay books?

  These were the times when any hope of getting lesbian books to lesbian girls went up in smoke and into shit and worse. The phone burned on her ear.

  Then a hand fell on her shoulder. A hard yet not unfriendly hand. And because it was a real hand of the here and now, attached to a real person in Washington who had joined her in the bathroom, it was far, far scarier than the wretched history of book destruction streaming from the phone.

  The hand pulled Hannah around, and the phone fell from her grip. In front of her stood the security guard.

  • • •

  It was in fact her favorite guard, the one who was often in and out on a short break whenever Hannah was on the pay phone, and who had asked so long ago, “Does that old thing even work?” Her strong, dark face now expressionless, she aimed a flashlight directly into Hannah’s eyes.