Claire of the Moon

by Nicole Conn

  ‘“What...is...it.”

  “What?” Noel was irritated now.

  “That makes you what you are.” Claire’s voice was genuine and softly searching.

  Noel lifted her head from her book and examined Claire’s eyes. She saw the intent struggle to understand.

  “I’m not exactly sure.” Noel glanced out at the expanse of ocean.

  “So. What’s the theory, Doc?”

  Noel turned back to her, studied her, trying to determine the origin of the question. “Depends on what makes you feel safest, I suppose.”

  Claire smiled gently.

  “The environment...history of abusive relationships with men, etcetera...genetic, which bears out more and more. None of which matters.”

  “So...forget the speeches. What do you think?”

  “A roll of the dice.”

  ****

  The sun dipped slowly as Claire and Noel played backgammon, faced off against each other as they sat on the built-in ledge spanning the length of the window. Noel felt Claire watching her as she rolled the dice and carefully maneuvered her white marble disks. She handed the dice to Claire, but Claire no longer seemed interested in the game.

  “When did you know?”

  Noel let it rest a moment between them. “Isn’t that a little personal?”

  “I thought that was your metier.”

  Noel considered. “OK. What do you want to know?”

  “How it started.”

  “Aren’t you curious,” Noel stated.

  “A writer’s prerogative.”

  Claire’s smile was so sweetly engaging, Noel found herself drifting into it, lost for a moment. She cleared her throat.

  “I was twenty-seven. She was a...patient.” She glanced briefly at Claire, feeling vulnerable for the first time in forever. She did not want her to misunderstand what had taken place. Then she turned inward, entering a memory she hadn’t visited in years. “There was something so engagingly tragic about her. I fell instantaneously. It was, after all, why I became involved with the profession...so I might guiltlessly indulge in my obsession with tragedy and my compulsion to fix it.”

  Noel paused a moment, being there. “I thought it was the case, you know, that I found so damn fascinating. But I was hooked into her so completely that I found myself rearranging my life for that one appointment: Wednesdays at five.”

  Noel pulled her knees up beneath her, staring at the floor. “Then one Wednesday, almost an hour late, she walks in. No apologies. She knew I was waiting and that I would continue to wait. That it didn’t matter. The funny thing was...she wasn’t even there for my help. I never really knew that about her until later. That she was there for me to understand about myself.”

  A pause. “She was absolutely stunning.” There was a catch to Noel’s voice. It took some effort for her to regain her composure.

  “She walked to the window...like she had the very first time I saw her. She looked out...turned to me. There was a sadness. We both knew she was leaving. Leaving town. She was getting married. She came up to me and said, ‘It’s better this way.’ And then she kissed me. ‘Besides, you’ve lost your professional distance,’ she said, and walked out the door.”

  Claire saw the raw pain spread across Noel’s face and a tear slide down her cheek. She frowned, confused. “One kiss?”

  “One kiss. I never knew a thing about myself until that kiss. I never knew want until that kiss—” Noel peered directly into Claire. “—what it felt to be utterly aroused. Never understood any of it. Until that kiss.”

  Claire swallowed, mesmerized by Noel and a new feeling that swept over her so quickly and thoroughly that she wanted to immerse herself in it and in the same breath knew she could not endure the intensity. She broke the frenzied activity racing between her mind and the lower extremities of her body by distancing herself, going to the hutch. She produced a bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses. She needed a drink.

  Several hours later they had moved from the window seat to the couch. Claire lounged full length as Noel crouched on the floor between her and the fireplace.

  “Don’t think the irony isn’t lost on me.” Claire indicated their stereotypical positions in relation to each other.

  “Don’t think I didn’t plan it this way.” Noel mimicked a Freudian accent. “Tell me you zecrets.”

  Claire turned to her, her eyes serious. “You think I’m a pain in the ass.”

  “You have your moments.”

  “Isn’t there always a reason? Behavior predicts behavior. I’m sure some shrink said that once upon a time.”

  “Do you always prefer glib to straightforward?”

  Noel’s contact was too direct. Claire winced as she sipped her whiskey. “I wasn’t always this charming.” She stated it flatly, simply: “It takes a whole life time of conditioning to get this caustic, after all.”

  “You...”

  “We all have stories, don’t we, Doc? Some are horrific. Some are just plain and simply out of People magazine. Mine aren’t anything special. It’s not like I had it any worse than any other kid from a broken marriage...with a broken mother.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. She couldn’t speak about her mother without somehow leaving herself, and becoming an objective bystander, sort of how she felt whenever images of the holocaust streamed by in a haunting documentary that couldn’t touch her because she couldn’t relate to anything that heinous.

  “He used to beat her...my mother. Until she was like a boxer, you know, so knocked about...pummeled, it destroyed all her brain centers. I hated her.” Claire gulped some of her whiskey. “I hated her ignorance and I hated her for letting him do that to her.”

  “Did he abuse you?”

  “No.” Claire assumed an amused tone. “He was afraid of me.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Oh yes. I had already learned about my power, you see. At thirteen.” Claire’s voice now took on a bitter edge. “It was pure instinct. God knows, I had no verbiage for it. But I knew, I had this power, as sure as I was uniquely female...that men were so absolutely insecure, they were compelled to batter people and things in some primal bleating way...” Her voice softened with compassion. “Like babies having tantrums. But on the inside, they were lost...lonely...pathetic little creatures, forever banished from their mother’s breast.” Claire was about to take another sip, thought better of it and set her glass down. “And when I knew I didn’t hate them, but pitied them, I understood power.”

  Noel knew Claire believed what she said with utter conviction, just as many of her patients had created value-judgments and their own sense of reality in order to survive their circumstances. She wanted to reach out to Claire, to touch her brow, and tell her she didn’t have to be so tough—that her power was as illusory as Noel’s patient had been.

  An edge returned to Claire’s voice. “He knew it and I let him know I knew. Hell, he never laid a hand on me...” Her voice trailed off, empty in its victorious words.

  ****

  Laden with a thermos of coffee, pumpkin muffins, several books, pens and paper, Claire hunted for the knoll she had discovered several days earlier that worked as a perfect wind break. She created a small cushion in the sand, snuggled down behind a driftwood log, and with great anticipation opened the book: The Naked Truth.

  The lesbian nation is as diverse as the women who inhabit it. There is an abundant variety and color in this world which engages in dynamics ranging from the butch/femme dyad to the yes/no (push-pull) tango, the top/bottom battle, elaborate S&M dichotomy, to the age-old debate over monogamy vs non-monogamy. There are closet cruisers who enjoy mental masturbation, jockettes, macho sluts, guppies, lipstick lesbians, femmes gone bad, turnabout gals and those who lust for straight women—lesbian vampires, if you will, who pursue seduction and conversion as an erotic device.

  “Jesus!” Claire stopped reading, drew a long breath. Again, the feeling from the night before washed over her and she glanced about self-consciously even tho
ugh she knew the beach was deserted. It took her several minutes to decide how she felt about the words she had read. She remembered stealing into her stepfather’s den, rummaging through Fire Island and coming across a passage about two gay men. She had the same feeling then that she did now: revolted and compelled. She extracted a cigarette from her shirt pocket, but didn’t light it, tapping it against her chin as she continued:

  The straight media conjures up the big bad lesbian as a nothing-at-the-mouth Jekyll and Hyde whose only passion is to seduce and convert straight women. For the most part, lesbians are not at all interested in straight women whose ambiguity around their sexual identity leads more often than not to pain and invalidation for the lesbian.

  Claire paused again and considered the credibility of the passage. She thought about Valerie, a writer friend who had fooled around with a well-known lesbian producer, had fallen head over heels in love with her, and then proceeded to dump her to return to a boyfriend, an out-of-work actor with bad skin. When she asked Valerie why, she had simply said, “Men may not be that great in bed, but they’re a hell of a lot easier on the heart.” She had never understood Valerie’s decision. She had met the producer, and she was so much more appealing on all levels…

  Although the community is as diverse as any subculture, split into political factions and lifestyles, there is always the tacit agreement that being lesbian means not sleeping with men, nor having the desire to do so.

  Claire lit her cigarette. She closed the book, leaned back and let the sun seep into her. Interesting.

  ****

  She was blocked. Noel sat at her laptop, twisting her hands together rhythmically, playing with her signet ring. She hadn’t gotten a damn thing done in the past hour. She flexed her neck, got up and wandered into the living room, stopped when she saw Claire’s bedroom door wide open.

  She walked casually to the entrance, poked her head in. She knew Claire was gone. She studied the disorder for a moment. She smiled briefly, thinking that it reflected the machinations of Claire’s chaotic mind. As she was about to turn she caught sight of the jacket cover of Claire’s book.

  Noel felt like a voyeur as she walked over and picked it up. She rifled through the pages. She would put it down in a minute.

  And then there is the advent of the lite affair. No pain. No pain. Wonderful in the summer. Has about as much substance as a “blonde joke?” You know—what’s the first thing a blonde does in the morning. Goes home.

  Noel twisted a knot out of her neck as she flipped Life Can Ruin Your Hair over and studied the jacket photo of Claire. Her hair was darker, brandy-blonde, cascading wildly about her shoulders. It worked. The photographer had caught the utter essence of her sensuality. Her eyes, deeply intelligent, probed beyond the surface, and the smirk around the mouth was a sort of tease, as if she were playing a joke on her audience. Noel returned to the passage.

  Seriously folks, how are we to expect longevity from a double-cappuccino culture that cannot even endure the length of a commercial? If we just hit the clicker enough times, chances are we will run into something reasonable, even if only for a half-hour. Perhaps a moody black and white...maybe an endearing sit-com... hell, even an intellectual mini-series. But I always set my remote to sleep, and by the time I’ve awakened the next morning, I’ve simply forgotten all about it.

  Noel slapped the book shut. She intended to put it down but decided as long as she had gone this far she would trespass just a bit further. She took it with her on her way to make tea and nearly collided with Claire who had just let herself into the cabin. It took them a moment to realize they were reading each other’s books. Neither said a word, but they both grinned and then continued on their paths.

  ****

  Picking up her mail at Maggie’s cabin, Claire sifted uninterestedly through several envelopes. BJ came up behind her, handed her one with Victoria’s Secret spelled all over it.

  “Hey, when you see Noel, will you give her this?”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t forget tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah...didn’t Noel tell you? Dinner at eight.” BJ strolled from the room.

  Claire read a feminine scrawl on the front and then lifted the envelope to her nose. As she suspected, not so subtly perfumed.

  ****

  “Here.” Claire tossed the letter before Noel who was deeply immersed in research.

  Noel was perturbed by Claire’s abruptness but as soon as she recognized the distinct lettering on the envelope her face closed down.

  “Bad news?” Claire hunted.

  “No. Yes...” Noel was clearly distracted. “It’s nothing.”

  “Or all of the above.” Claire became upset that she could not drive a response out of Noel. “Were you going to tell me about dinner tonight?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes. With Maggie and BJ.”

  “Oh...yes. No. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Well I am.”

  Noel got up with the letter and muttered, “Fine,” with utter detachment.

  “Fine.” Claire mimicked. She felt paralyzed, confined by her own boredom and something else. She still had a few hours to kill before dinner. Maybe she wouldn’t go. She had plenty of other options. She paced, restlessly, then marched defiantly out the door.

  ****

  Noel sat very still at the window ledge. The envelope rested in her lap, unopened. She considered it every few minutes as she had for the last two hours. She finally tossed it over to the table. Several minutes later she retrieved it. She sighed. Slowly. Picked up the envelope and with great consideration tore it open.

  The crunching of gravel interrupted her as a shiny red Bronco pulled up just outside in the driveway. Inside, Claire’s figure was barely distinguishable through the tinted window. Brian jumped out and cavalierly met her as she opened the passenger door. He slammed it and then grabbed her playfully to him. They shared a throaty kiss until Claire began to disengage. He pressed for more, leaned into her again. She let him kiss her gently, but cut off any passion. When she pulled away her eyes ran directly into Noel’s. A moment of pure shock passed between them. Claire held her eyes several seconds longer, then defiantly pulled Brian back into her, embracing him hungrily.

  “You’re always getting involved where you don’t belong,” BJ chided Maggie good naturedly. Maggie grinned at the loveliness that was BJ: warm, sensual, and very female. They had spent a perfect day together. In bed.

  BJ sat across from her now, her shining eyes flashing secrets to Maggie as she passed the bread to Claire on her left. There was definitely something going on between Claire and Noel, Maggie decided as she watched them avoid each other’s eyes through most of dinner. Claire was animated, but it wasn’t natural. Maggie recognized the influence of several glasses of Merlot. And Noel. She was about as much fun as a widow in mourning. Poked at her food. Politely.

  “So what’s the harm?” Still grinning, Maggie poured more wine into Claire and Noel’s glasses. “Cupid is my calling card.”

  “I know. You’d rather meddle than breathe.” BJ turned conspiratorially to Claire and Noel. “Adrienne and...Tara!”

  Claire and Noel finally caught each other’s eyes, staring in amazement.

  “But—”

  “I know what you’re thinkin’ darlin.’” Maggie imitated Tara as she responded to Claire, “You’re thinkin’ Tara’s got a big southern Magnolia up her butt, but the truth is she’s fascinated by, oh, how shall I put this...Adrienne’s Northern chaaaahm.”

  Noel put her napkin on her plate indicating she was finished with her meal, and remained silent.

  “I’ve never seen two people more ill-suited.” Claire spoke to Maggie, but everyone knew to whom the comment was directed.

  Maggie watched Claire’s eyes snap to Noel. Damn fine looking woman, tonight, that Claire, in her little L.A. number. A cream-colored one-piec
e, snugged sweetly at the waist, accentuated every line of her knockout body, not to mention the V-neck that dipped seductively to the curve of her breasts. Maggie found it fascinating, especially in contrast to Noel’s dark blazer, black turtleneck. These two were quite a pair. Oh, the yin and the yang of it all.

  “Maggie, you know every time you get into this stuff it turns into one long drama-rama.” BJ teased her sweetly.

  “I don’t have anything better to do.” Maggie gulped the last of her Merlot and realized this was more true than she wanted it to be. She stared at the empty wine glass as if it held the answer. Part of her knew it was the answer.

  BJ got up and started to clear the table. “Why don’t you two go into the living room, while we make coffee and argue some more.” BJ directed Noel and Claire as she peered challengingly at Maggie.

  Claire picked up her wine glass and followed Noel, slowly. Both of them sat, nestling into several floor pillows by the fireplace. Claire fed the dying embers, adding several dry logs, then turned to Noel, who stared into the crackling hearth, obviously distracted. Claire felt awkward after their distance in the afternoon, and embarrassed by her display with Brian. She wanted to reconnect with Noel, wanted to bring back what had flowed so easily between them the night they had shared those dark parts of themselves. She had no idea about how to make that happen or why she even desired it.

  “Quite a pair,” she commented about Maggie and BJ. It was a rare occurrence but Claire was at a loss for any other words.