by Nicole Conn
“What?”
“I’m not in the mood for experimental cohabitation.”
“N-o-o—e-el.” Maggie tried to cajole Noel who paced angrily in front of her.
“I can’t get any work done. She’s intrusive with her running in all hours of the night. She’s...she’s a slut. A common garden variety slut!”
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” BJ strolled in from the dining room.
“Harsh...I don’t think there’s a more appropriate term.”
“I don’t know. She sounds a bit like one of your archetype heroines.” BJ sat next to Maggie.
“What?”
BJ feigned the affected intellectual. “Hmmmm let me see. Something about loose women being the champions of non-monogamy.” BJ picked up a copy of Noel’s The Naked Truth. “And I quote, ‘...a more realistic approach to long term relationships than the repeatedly unsuccessful exclusivity set up by marriage, which results in serial monogamy as opposed to long-term coupling.’”
“Yeah, Dr. Benedict,” Maggie interjected. “I’d think you’d want to study this specimen up close.”
“She hardly belongs in that category.” Noel clamped her jaws shut. “Is there another room?”
“You know there isn’t.”
Noel dropped Maggie’s book back in her lap. “Perhaps I should consider my options.”
“Yes, Noel,” BJ countered, but not unkindly, “perhaps you should.”
****
She had only seen her father cry once, shortly before her seventeenth birthday, on the tenth anniversary of her mother’s death. The bus had broken down on its way home from school. Her father’s panic had escalated and when she finally arrived, he grasped her to him savagely, his British upbringing in tattered shreds as he clutched his offspring in primal protection. It was only then that she realized there was a place in her father’s heart reserved for a fiercely intense love that belonged to her, and only her.
When her mother had died so had the warmth in her father’s eyes. For several years she was fostered by her father’s sister, Aunt Sheila, whose voice reminded her of frozen icicles. She became a prisoner of good breeding and Aunt Sheila’s inborn resentment of her own facile upbringing and therefore her greatest quest in life: to instill her own prim manners and upper girl’s school etiquette upon Noel. But Noel consistently disappointed her aunt. She kept to herself, reading for long hours into the night and when she did say anything it was insufferably tactless. She went out of her way to speak her mind, even if she did so quietly. Aunt Sheila believed her anti-social behavior was Noel’s mastermind plan to drive her to the ultimate disgrace: losing her temper. The child had to be taught the difference between unmindful honesty and gracious diplomacy. And the more withdrawn Noel became, the more arch and insistent Aunt Sheila’s stiff-upper-lip demands became. After all, she and Charles had gone out of their way to help her poor, bereft younger brother, who had had no sense marrying Noel’s mother in the first place, bloody American singer who was as wild as the night was black. And her offspring—genetic twist, that. She couldn’t have looked any more like her mother. Poor David. It would certainly be a hardship to have his wife’s mirror image before him. But she couldn’t tolerate the child’s utter lack of social finesse. Her manners were deplorable.
Finally, wearing the weary look of someone who has been tested beyond her mettle, Aunt Sheila returned his daughter to her brother, and told him, with what she considered quite respectable melodrama, that the child simply was not normal.
David Benedict was just as much at a loss in raising his daughter as his sister had been. He and Noel kept to themselves, passing each day as silently as the last. When they did talk it was to discuss when he would next be leaving for business and how long he would be gone. Did she need anything. New clothes, items for school. It was not that he was unkind. He was simply not present.
Noel was aware of a vast emptiness, but had no idea how to fill it. She preoccupied herself with her schooling and the world she created every time she turned the page of a new book. Her life was as exciting as Hemingway’s adventures, as droll and sublime as Wilde’s affairs, as sarcastic as Parker’s cynical poems, and as richly textured as Ayn Rand’s cornerstone tomes. But it was all in her head and only occasionally did any of it travel to her heart.
It was because of this naturally cultivated detachment that Noel found herself exceedingly gifted in helping others resolve emotional problems by remaining objective in the face of the most tortured anguish. And in doing so Noel was able to experience the gift of healing which was as close as she was able to come in divining a sense of spirituality. If her emotional bedside manner left something to be desired, her clients sought her directive intellectual approach and left more fully evolved, balanced and healthy. She was, by any standard, a success. Her practice thrived, she was extremely well thought of in the women’s health care field, respectably notorious with the male practitioners, and her patients adored her. But the hole was still a hole.
She had stormed from Maggie’s cabin with the same sense of futility she had often felt when she was trapped with her Aunt Sheila—firmly aware of the gnawing emptiness with no idea how to fill it. She headed to the beach. She had so much work to do and here she was, stomping around in the sand like a child, frustrated, trying to remember everything she was about. Calmness. Serenity. Collecting the data and then assessing a situation without jumping to conclusions. What was the bottom line? What was bothering her so about this intrusive personality? She had worked with difficult people before and remained utterly untouched. How could she fix it? Fixing it was, after all, what she was supposed to be so damn good at.
A large rock loomed, seemingly out of nowhere. Her gait slowed. She studied the monolith, advancing curiously to explore the craggy exterior. Her hand followed the jutting history of a million years, then she slowly turned in to it and pressed the full length of her body against its granite strength. She closed her eyes and let the sun beat on her back, hoping it would penetrate this sense of defeat she hadn’t felt in years. She squared her shoulders and slowly headed back to the cabin.
****
Noel was relieved Claire wasn’t parked in the front room. It was easier if she had a moment to think before she approached her. She paced quietly, structuring her thoughts and sentences so there would be no room for misunderstanding, priding herself on her gift for clarity of communication. When she felt prepared she trod lightly towards Claire’s room, knocked gently on the door. There was no answer. But Noel could sense Claire’s presence on the other side. She knocked again.
“Yeah?” Distant, remote.
“Can I interrupt you a moment?” There was a silence, and Noel was sure she heard a sigh of discontent.
“Yeah.”
Noel opened the door. As usual, the tendrils of smoke from Claire’s cigarette floated towards her. Claire sat in the middle of her bed Indian-style amidst clutter and mayhem as she stared at her laptop. Clothes, cassettes, papers, files, and an inordinate number of books, opened and carelessly strewn about, were piled everywhere, so that Noel wondered if Claire removed the debris every night before she retired only to spend the next day rebuilding it.
Claire was clearly not in the mood for conversation and barely glanced Noel’s way, but Noel was intent upon her mission. “Do you suppose we might arrive at an understanding?”
Claire observed her cigarette as if it were the most intriguing artifact she had ever encountered, and then without further ado, mashed it into an ashtray suffocated by butts. “I doubt it.”
“A compromise.”
“Look. We’re just polar opposites. No biggie. You stay north and I’ll stay south.”
Noel paused before she replied. “Then perhaps some ground rules to help smooth things out.”
“Rules,” Claire smirked. “You shrinks just love them, don’t you. ‘Be spontaneous. Love life. Embrace it. But do it by the rules.’”
“Are you finished?” Claire did
not answer. “I came here to work. But it is extremely difficult to be...this fragmented. I would like for this situation to be bearable for both of us.”
Claire turned to her, relenting slightly. “Yeah.”
“Good. First of all our schedules are radically different. Your hours are diametrically opposed to my own. In order for us to mesh into some sort of routine, I suggest we arrange for certain hours we each use the bathroom, kitchen, and common areas. Furthermore...”
But Claire didn’t hear the rest of Noel’s assessment of the situation. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it to be workable. It was simply that whenever rules and ultimatums were thrown in her face, she went into a state of autism. She pretended to follow, but instead her mind wandered, and Noel’s words faded in futile assaults against the void.
****
Two nights later, Claire strolled in, a little more than tipsy, knocking into the hutch. One of the Wedgwood cups teetered precariously before Claire caught it. God knew, the British Empire might collapse if Noel didn’t have her favorite teacup in the morning. She noticed the light from beneath Noel’s door. She was still at work. God, the woman never stopped. Claire spent a moment wondering whether she admired Noel’s discipline or despaired over it, then tried to remember what the rule was about showering times. Shit. She should have paid more attention, but really. This woman’s obsession with order was beyond the pale. Claire decided best not to get caught up in it. She would simply stay out of the way. Hell, she spent most of her nights out anyway. Besides, rules were for people who were afraid of themselves. Certainly not anarchists like herself.
Noel heard the movements from the other room. God, did the woman never stay home? How could she ever get anything accomplished when she spent half her time in bars? Noel stared at the screen of her laptop. Oh, God. Claire was taking another shower. The bathroom would be a complete mess in the morning. Noel stretched her neck, rubbed the tough knot forming in her right shoulder. A fleeting thought of envy flashed through her mind, and then was just as quickly squelched. The idea of that kind of wild freedom was nothing but frightening.
“Bullshit!” BJ was particularly feisty this evening and Maggie was certain it was due to cunnilingus interruptus. Just as they had started making love, Lynn had pounded on the door, a half hour early for Tuesday evening’s festivities. The three of them sat, filling the void with unusually inane conversation, the crackling fire punctuating the heat generated more by BJ’s desire than the blazing logs. Finally the rest of the group arrived, seating themselves informally on the couch and floor in a semi-circle as the fire continued to roar.
Lynn stared at BJ, open-mouthed, as she had most of the evening as BJ said, “If anything our complacency has made us take two steps backwards.”
“It’s the same ol’ thing.” Adrienne sighed. “If they keep telling us how far you’ve come baby we believe it.”
“And our boys will keep jumping into the arena.” BJ’s eyes were aflame. “Blood-thirsty gladiators wielding car phones, drunk with espresso and martini brunches—”
“Real men don’t brunch—” quipped Maggie.
“— intoxicated by their power,” Adrienne concluded.
“But...” Lynn interjected an opinion. “...But we have made a lot of advances.”
“Certainly we have, sugah.” Tara patted her on the knee.
“Yeah ‘sugah,’” Adrienne quipped. “Haven’t you heard of Nutrasweet?”
Lynn’s eyes darted frantically, like those of a child who is trying to comprehend the logic of its elders. “Well...what I mean is...I mean all you have to do is look at history. We vote. We work and still have children. We’re a lot better off than we were...and we do have equal footing.”
“Mass control.” BJ yawned affectedly.
“I mean if you just realize what women do today.” Lynn’s earnestness grew with each word. “Carpenters! Women who run their own businesses...Airline pilots...the accomplishments! There’s a lot less discrimination. We’re better paid and we hold jobs of...of distinction.”
“Yeah.” Maggie lit a cigarette. “As ball busters.” At the pained expression on Lynn’s face Maggie added sweetly, “Darlin’ you’ve eaten every last bite the media has spoon-fed ya, like a good little girl.”
“I think women who value their femininity can maintain it if they just play the game right.” Tara reached for her wine.
“Sure, if they want to be passive-aggressive.” Adrienne needled her.
“And remember,” BJ warned, “we’re not granted that all-powerful trait men uphold as a birthright. Arrogance.”
“Ooooohhhh yeah.” Adrienne jumped up, her long limbs flailing excitedly. “I’d love to be a man. Waltz into a room, scope out what I want like I’m looking over apples at the fruit stand. If I did that I’d be a—”
“— slut.” Claire supplied with a cynical edge.
So the ice-goddess speaks. Maggie watched them all study Claire, who stared, motionless, at the floor.
“Exactly! But a man, he simply adjusts his balls.” Adrienne mocked this motion. “Goes in swinging.”
“But when a woman goes in swinging, it’s a come-on.” Again there was a sharp twist to Claire’s voice, as if the knowledge was hard-earned. “She’s a tart. A nasty girl. A bitch.”
“What do you think, Noel?” Maggie prodded. If she could get things stirred up, tonight just might turn out to be interesting.
Noel seemed to choose her words carefully. “I think the double standard remains firmly intact. Especially with women.”
“What?” Lynn was astounded.
“Have you forgotten about the women’s movement?” Tara baited.
“Not at all.” Noel was matter-of-fact. “But we’ve been apologizing for it ever since. Like a child discovering its independence. It crawls bravely out, but once poised upon the precipice of danger, it scurries back to its mother. We don’t allow anyone, or certainly ourselves, any power, let alone individuality.”
“You mean...sexual preference?” Tara pushed.
“All of it. Theoretically we’re an evolved group of women.” Noel encompassed them all. “Who for one reason or another find judgment with one another’s lifestyles, work, compromises—”
“Some compromises...” Tara pointed her remark at Noel, “just aren’t worth it.”
“If by that you’re implying my lesbianism—”
Lynn’s head swiveled to Noel as Tara deported her body in a self-servingly smug manner. Claire’s eyes sparked with interest at this new information and she observed Noel carefully.
“If I had chosen any other way, it would have been the most costly compromise I could make. But you have illustrated my point. You’re appalled by my choices.” The battle line was clearly drawn between Noel and Tara. “I don’t take it personally. Even lesbians don’t allow for much diversity within our subculture. We’re simply still too afraid to take our power.”
“Maybe collectively.” Again they turned to the unexpected source of this comment. Noel appeared surprised Claire would have anything to add. Maggie watched intently. “But individually there is an enormous power in being female. If you know how to use it.”
“Exactly.” Tara obviously felt supported. The ranks were choosing sides.
“And I’m not talkin’ lash-battin’ feminine wiles.” Claire cut Tara with her southern drawl. “I mean taking their rules and shoving it up their asses.”
“All right!” Adrienne was thrilled.
“The best part being,” Claire continued mischievously, “they don’t have a clue they’re being butt-fucked.”
A silence hit the room. Lynn looked as if she had been struck with a switch. Such foul language and from a lady, no less. Tara’s fine breeding asserted itself as she haughtily attempted to compose herself.
“Where’s the power in that game?” Noel countered.
“It’s no game, I assure you.” Claire rose, tired of the debate.
“Then where is the joy?”
; Claire sauntered towards Noel, stopped just short of a foot from her. “Joy?” Claire’s tone was flip, but her eyes were deadly serious. “I’m talking about survival.”
****
Claire smoked her cigarette outside. What a fool! She considered herself sophisticated, aware. So why did Noel’s exposing her sexuality affect her so? Of course, she had known it all along. Claire took a deeper drag than she intended. The smoke hurt her lungs. She just hadn’t voiced it to herself. God. What was she doing here? These women! A bunch of drippy unenlightened neophytes pretending at worldly conversation. She would have been better off passing the evening away at that abysmal excuse for a bar.
Claire threw her cigarette butt to the ground, swirled the dregs of her wine on top of it. As she returned to the kitchen she stopped. She heard Tara, Lynn and Adrienne washing the remainder of the cups and wine glasses.
“I don’t know,” Tara pouted, “it just sorta gives me the willies. I mean I’m as open-minded as the next person, but there’s something...I don’t know, unnatural about it all.”
“But she looks as normal as you or I.” There was a hint of desperation in Lynn’s voice. If Noel could be the woman next door, she could be her as well. Poor thing, thought Claire. Housewife dementia. She heard the strain Lynn’s mind was taking into uncharted territory.
“All I can say, is what a waste!”
“Why Missy O’Hara.” Adrienne affected a southern twang. “For such an open-minded soul, you sure are talkin’ like an ignorant misguided bigot.” Claire peeked in just far enough to see Adrienne playfully fling a dishtowel at Tara, who turned away, looking unsure as to whether she wanted to let the slam go or not. Adrienne’s eyes were playful, teasing. Tara gave the best southern-forgiven pout she could muster in return.
“She’s very attractive.” Lynn was still pondering. “I guess I don’t understand. Maybe she was abused or—”