by Nicole Conn
“Yes...They’ve been coming apart and together for twenty years now.” Noel talked more to herself than to Claire.
“How long have you known them?”
“Since I started coming here...five years ago.”
“Maggie’s a character.”
“A teddy bear. Underneath the fire.”
Claire studied Noel carefully then, desperate to get under her surface. “And what about you?”
Noel looked at her.
Claire’s eyes were open, inviting. “Underneath it all.”
Just as Noel’s eyes began to respond, Maggie crouched down between them. “So. How’s the probe?” Noel’s eyes darted from Claire’s as if they had been caught. “You know. The intimacy thing.”
Noel’s relief was apparent. “Oh...well, OK, I suppose.”
“Well shit girlfriend,” Maggie groaned as she stood back up and ambled to the couch. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
“I’m just bored with it.”
“Kind of hard to write about something you’re not experiencing, isn’t it?” Maggie needled her.
“I’m sure Noel’s sense of recall’s just fine.” BJ had entered, set down a tray with four lattes on the coffee table. She gently pushed Maggie to the side as she sat next to her, ran a hand lovingly through her hair.
“So come on.” Maggie persisted. “Don’t be so goddamn mysterious.”
“You’re not really happy unless you’re bugging me, are you Maggie.” Noel was clearly not in the mood.
“I suppose we have to come to your lecture to unveil the eighth wonder of the world.”
“Oh, are you doing the artist’s series again?” BJ asked. Noel nodded. “Noel’s quite the celebrity here,” BJ remarked to Claire, as she handed her a latte.
“They don’t know what the fuck to think about this very urbane, very sophisticated Professor yakkin’ up lesbo sexuality here in our provincial yet open-minded little burg.” Maggie pulled out her cigarettes, offered one to Claire. “So come on...give us the preview.”
Noel sighed. “Well...first off, the relationship of communication to intimacy is being broadly overlooked, on the most basic level.” Her tone became wearily academic. “Most of us are so vulnerable and riddled with neurosis we’re not equipped to really communicate...without which there is no basis for intimacy.”
“No problem.” Maggie poked BJ. “You simply match neuroses.”
“Equal in all things,” BJ quipped.
“Equality has nothing to do with it.” Noel’s voice was flat. “In fact, intimacy would be far easier if we accepted the honesty of inequality, since there is no such thing in any case—”
“So now equality doesn’t exist?” BJ countered.
“Exactly. Let’s just be honest and accept it. You like to do this to me and I like it done.”
“OK, Doctor,” Claire said, accepting this idea, “then what particular Petri dish creates this elusive state of intimacy?”
“The Tallulah Tango!” Maggie bellowed tipsily.
Noel ignored Maggie’s crudeness. “Quite often the most direct route.”
“So intimacy is only possible during the sexual act?” Maggie noted, even in her haziness, that there was a distinct bite to Claire’s tone.
“That is precisely what I am not saying.” Maggie saw that Noel was reliving an old frustration. They had had this conversation many times. “We’re probably more dishonest during sex than at any other time.” Noel leaned forward, put her coffee down, and then gazed into the fire as if the answers might be somewhere among the dancing flames. Her voice softened, as she groped for words. “We’re all searching...with this insatiable hunger to be intimate—truly intimate, but juxtaposed to that is the battle of how far we will expose ourselves to achieve it.”
“What a dreary prognosis,” Claire intoned.
“So out with it,” BJ said, and then asked at large, “Where do we find it?”
“Different ways. Some of us get it from our friends. A rare few from our lovers. Some of us fuck strangers.”
Claire’s head snapped to Noel. Maggie saw Noel’s awareness that this was a direct hit. But Noel continued, “If we are to be judged, branded, exposed to someone we know, we have to justify what eroticizes us...what moves us. And what if we should want something from our partner that will disgust them? What if what we entertain as erotic revolts them?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Claire was angry now. “Don’t you think it’s possible to find a meeting of the minds during the act of sex?”
“Great sex does not equal intimacy.”
“So you’re saying men and women have no hope of achieving intimacy.”
“It can be imitated...it can be simulated. But men and women will never speak the same language. Ergo, men and women can never achieve true intimacy.”
“So that rare achievement is reserved only for dykes?” Claire’s tone was derisive.
“That would be the logical conclusion,” Noel answered wearily.
They were all silent, debating this pronouncement. Noel certainly knew how to put a spin on an evening, Maggie thought as she watched, amused.
BJ tried to save the situation. “Perhaps it comes back down to our lack of language as a whole. Men and women achieve levels of intimacy...just as women—”
“Excuse me, Doctor—” Claire cut BJ dead, glaring at Noel. “—but I think your rhetoric sucks.” She bolted upright and stormed from the cabin.
Maggie watched her retreating figure, then shook her head, tsk tsking. “Noel, methinks you have offended the fair lass.”
Claire tossed her cigarette over the side of the deck as she leaned against the railing. Maybe it was time for her to leave. She wasn’t really getting anything out of this retreat “thang.” That probably only worked when you had something to retreat to. Picturesque scenery only went so far. She hadn’t found her soul and Salinger had nothing to worry about. When she heard Noel’s footsteps she froze.
Noel approached slowly, glanced at Claire’s implacable profile. “I’m sorry. About last night.” Claire was silent. “None of that was directed at you.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“It’s not a lesbian issue.”
“You seem to have adopted it as one.”
“It’s an issue of communication. Period. You’d think having two women make love you’d manage to have some pretty torrid sex. Truth is, they feel just as exposed and vulnerable...”
Claire was uncomfortable with this dialogue, the two of them, standing there together.
“Like you.” Claire shifted the conversation. “Last night.” Noel wasn’t sure what she was referring to. “The letter.”
“Perhaps...” Noel grinned sardonically.
“It rattled you.”
“Just...unexpected.”
“What happened?”
Noel took a moment. “Nothing that matters now.” She shifted gears. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize. Thought I’d buy you a drink at that place you’re so fond of.”
Claire considered, then decided to let her anger drop. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. Being angry with Noel was easy, God knew, but it was also counterproductive. To what, Claire wasn’t certain, but she smiled engagingly at Noel’s invitation, then turned and led them both off the deck.
****
“I read your book.”
They sat in a small booth, listening to yet another ribald tale of country woe wailing from the jukebox. Claire removed a cigarette but didn’t light it. “Very enlightening,” she said. “Not my cup of tea but it is rather fascinating. Tell me something.”
“Hmmm?”
“This butch/femme thang. I don’t know. Sounds simulated to me.”
“You’re referring to male role-playing.” Noel’s academic tone returned. Claire nodded. “In some cases it is. But there is a critical distinction. In our world, butches like to give pleasure. Not take it.”
Claire flinched. Noel disregarded it, changed the subject. “I find it so easy to drink
here.”
“Bars do have that effect.” Claire was defensive.
“No. I mean here. At the beach.” Noel knew far too well, from a clinical standpoint, about alcohol abuse. Especially with lesbians who had lost their families, their sense of self in a society that shunned them or simply didn’t recognize them—the shame, the guilt, grief and humiliation that danced attendance upon their consciousness as they grappled with this new aspect of themselves. How gently the intoxicating elixir lulled the painful memories, anesthetized misery and loneliness, kept intimacy at elbow-bending length. The irony was that it also gave one courage to break down those barriers, as she and Claire were now chipping at their own.
“You think it really has anything to do with that?” Claire’s irritation was no secret.
“No...I suppose not.” Noel’s tone was flat. She studied her hands as Claire studied her pain. It was the pain, so raw about Noel’s face, that evaporated Claire’s anger. Just when she thought there was something she could really hold onto and use to settle in on a good argument, Noel’s countermovements dissipated her momentum. She sensed the intense sadness coming from Noel, and knew there was no relief.
“Hey.” Claire put her hand over Noel’s and wasn’t sure what to do when Noel’s unveiled, shocked eyes met hers. She winked, sweetly, then smiled, softly. She removed her hand, self-consciously, then lit a cigarette.
“So what are you working on?”
“This isn’t leading to a pep talk.”
“Of course not. Come on, what is it?”
Now Claire was the one to retreat into an old pain. “A work-in-progress.”
“More jaded views on contemporary dysfunction?”
“Not quite.” Claire took a drag off her cigarette, her tone serious. “A novel.”
“Hmmm.” Noel took another sip. Her eyes sparkled. “And what is this novel about?”
“Sex.”
“Ahhh...a sizzling sexualpade?”
“Sure, some of Tara O’Hara’s sanitized sex.”
“I hardly think that’s your metier.”
Claire’s eyes snapped to hers. Noel was baiting her. “What is?”
“Oh, I should say, very rough, raw, down and dirty sort of sex.”
Claire considered for a moment. “Well, being a therapist I suppose you have the exact definition of rough...raw...down and dirty sort of sex.”
“Yes. It’s called fucking.”
“Ouch!” Claire belted her bourbon down. Noel’s graphic language struck a chord in her. But she wasn’t about to let Noel see that. She responded, going for flip, “Sounds like a nasty habit.”
“It can be.”
“I take it, it’s not a hobby.” The banter had become deadly serious. “Lesbians do fuck, don’t they?”
Noel wouldn’t justify Claire’s taunt with an answer.
“Tell me...how do they fuck exactly, without the proper apparatus?” Claire heard the angry tone in her voice. She did not want to lose her edge with this woman. Not about this.
“It doesn’t take a great deal of ingenuity to figure that one out.”
“I’ve been wondering.” Claire continued her attack. “If they’re so goddamn well-adjusted, why are they so attached to their dildos?”
“Dildos have nothing to do with penises. It’s about penetration, which feels good.”
Claire was nonchalant. She had to be. “Sex is sex.”
“It may be for you, but sex between women is as raw as it gets.”
Claire responded physically. The visual imagery that flew through her mind sent a twist through her stomach. Her jaw tightened. The music faded to an end. There was an empty silence between them.
“What are you doing?” Claire could hear the fear in her own voice.
“Answering your questions.”
“This isn’t about me—”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why such potent curiosity?”
“Merely...academic.”
“Merely...”
Another tense moment of silence filled the space between them. Claire shifted uncomfortably as Noel’s eyes held her.
“What are you afraid of, Claire?”
“If I was afraid...” Claire’s eyes were like ice, “you’d certainly be the last person I would discuss it with.”
****
Claire’s fingers were stiff as she played her singularly favorite and most tormented Chopin Prelude. Restless and tense she pummeled the piano in frustration, exorcising her demons. She knew she was wallowing in a feeling she didn’t even have the words to describe, but the more she went there, to this place that burned in her womb, the more she desired it. What “it” was she couldn’t ascertain. She had played for hours and felt that if she could simply play until she was exhausted maybe “it” would go away. But the more fiercely the melody wove into her being, the more plagued she became.
She stopped. Her breath was ragged as she stared at the keys. Her hands trembled. She twisted them together and then as if in a supreme effort of decision closed the cover on the keys. She rose, as if by a will other than her own...
****
Noel typed with fastidious concentration as Claire entered her room. She waited in the frame of the doorway as Noel slowly turned to her.
Their eyes locked. Noel stood.
Claire went to her, graceful and deliberate. Within a foot of her she stopped.
Noel slowly lifted her hands to loosen Claire’s braid, her eyes never leaving Claire’s, every movement punctuated by the clear intent in her eyes. As Claire’s hair fell softly to her shoulders, Claire reached for Noel, cupping her face in both hands, and gently kissed her lips. Sweet. Earl Grey tea and honey. Claire’s lips traveled to Noel’s eyes, her eyelids, brows, down her jawline, cheeks, her chin, to her neck, gently exploring with each caress.
Noel gripped Claire by the shoulders, prying her from their contact, defiance in her eyes. What did Claire want? Did she have any idea what she was doing?
Claire silenced the questions by taking Noel’s hands and folding them around her in a complete embrace, then touching her lips to Noel’s, her tongue probing parted lips, gentle but determined, engulfed by Noel’s essence, clasping her fiercely into her, wanting this and afraid of it.
Noel threw her violently to the side and when Claire turned to her she was gone. Claire regained her balance and moved to the mirror. Tormented, she stared at the reflection, touched the frame in absolute terror, for when she stared into the eyes that peered from behind the magic reflection into her own, they belonged to Noel.
****
Claire’s eyes flew open. It took her a moment to get her bearings. She searched for her braid. It was still intact. She bolted upright on the bed, her breathing irregular. She heard Noel’s movements in the kitchen. She frantically reached for her cigarettes but the package was empty. She tossed it over the side of the bed in frustration and disgust. She inhaled deeply, cleared her throat.
****
The silence seemed deafening to Claire as she entered the kitchen where Noel was preparing a cup of tea. On the counter next to her was Claire’s last pack of cigarettes.
“Would you like some tea?”
Claire shook her head. All she wanted were her damn cigarettes and to get out of the room, but something kept her from approaching.
“Claire?”
Claire brought herself back to attention.
“Perhaps we should consider another truce.”
Claire looked at her then. She was bundled in what appeared to be an old favorite sweater, navy blue, with a cranberry turtleneck that brought out the glow in her cheeks. She must have gone for a walk. Her eyes were misted, her hair lightly tousled, and something else. A new softness Claire had never noticed in the tall, impenetrable doctor. Claire found herself staring, unabashedly until Noel became visibly self-conscious.
“What?” Noel said. But Claire was in a world of her own. “What is it?”
&
nbsp; “You look...” Then under her breath, “different.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” Claire retreated. “Never mind.”
“Claire...”
Claire’s eyes questioned.
“The truce?”
“Sure.” Claire nodded, slowly, strangely, still inward. “Sure.”
****
Maggie sat in the kitchen blowing smoke rings. The others were in the living room pontificating over some extremely important issue, she was certain—right up there with Lynn’s recipe for suspense and Tara’s next soap-twisted machinations for romance. Maggie nabbed a couple of peanuts, chucked them into her mouth. What was this? Did she hear raised voices? She poured herself more bourbon and rejoined her guests who were lounging lazily about the living room where the debate had begun.
“It’s a gift of light.”
“It’s a sham.”
“Exactly.”
“How can you say that?” Lynn was tormented.
“No...no...you’re allowing your intellect to betray your hearts.” Shilo sat yoga-style.
One thing for Shilo, Maggie thought, she might be operating on her own set of burners, but she was definitely grounded in her beliefs.
“Romance is a gift of feeling,” Shilo whispered, “and no matter how you get there...it’s divine intervention. The pure radiance of it all—”
“It’s a matter of semantics.” BJ’s tone was short as she walked up to Maggie and removed the shot of bourbon from her hand. Maggie did not resist or protest. She would merely retrieve her drink later from the coffee table.
“It’s a matter of camouflage,” Noel intoned.
“I wouldn’t expect a pragmatist with your...” Tara searched with an affected roll of her eyes, “...orientation to think any different.”
“You think there aren’t any dyed-in-the-wool lesbian romantics?” Maggie sipped her beer chaser, getting back at BJ. “They’re the worst. Instead of having just one pining for the white picket fence...you got two.”