Then her cell phone made a low buzzing vibration like a trapped horsefly. Lauren fumbled the phone out of her front pocket and gazed at the display, trying to make sense of the caller ID: “V STONE.”
“What in the hell?” The phone growled three more times as she struggled with her shock at Valerie’s first call after six years of silence.
“Goddess, help me.” She pressed answer and raised the device to her ear. “Hello?”
Out of the receiver came a gasp—tight breath drawn over bare teeth.
“Hello, Lauren? This is Valerie. Val Stone. Please, don’t hang up… Do you have a moment to talk? Please?” Her words, harsh, brittle smacks, sounded like pebbles on glass.
Ice flurries swept through Lauren’s body. She forced her flaccid tongue to obey. “Hi Val, this is a complete surprise, what’s up?” she swallowed and then gave up all pretense of nonchalance. “It’s actually really good to hear from you.” She struggled to speak distinctly, distracted by the reverb in the bathroom’s 12-foot-tall ceilings and her thumping heart.
“Are you all right?” Val asked.
Lauren assumed she knew exactly what Val meant, but she played dumb. “What do you mean?”
“Your voice, you sound a little—well, drunk…” Val almost whispered the last word, as though ashamed to say it.
Lauren sighed, suppressing irritation. “Yeah. I know. But I’m not, as a matter of fact. Drunk, that is. I was diagnosed a couple of years back with M.S. – multiple sclerosis.”
“Oh my God, Lauren—I’m so sorry…” Val’s voice trailed off. “I didn’t mean…”
“Never mind, it’s okay. Right now it’s mostly in remission. And I get that reaction a lot. Sometimes my voice slurs and I get dizzy, and my muscles refuse to obey. Sometimes I laugh compulsively when nothing’s funny. It’s like being drunk, only no euphoria. So… what were you calling about, Val?” Lauren wanted to get off this filthy floor; she tested the muscles in her legs by raising her feet a few inches. Good.
“Listen Lauren, the last thing I want to do is cause you any more pain. But I’m in trouble…”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Val remained silent for a moment, as though struggling for words. “I don’t want to burden you Lauren. You have your own problems, obviously. And I feel so terrible about the way I behaved when we were together…” Lauren sensed the anxiety underneath and didn’t interrupt.
“I’m so ashamed, Lauren, it’s difficult to find the words. But, I’m about to lose the apartment.”
Lauren immediately recalled how she felt six years ago when she walked out of their shared apartment for the last time, to escape the creature that Valerie kept locked inside her psyche. Lauren had just glimpsed it once before Val socked her in the face and her eyelids swelled shut.
But all of the lousy bitching over failed promises and petty blunders was counterbalanced by an emotional bond so strong that Lauren couldn’t help herself.
Her instinct screamed at her not to say it, but a ligature of desire intent on recapturing the tenderness she’d experienced with this beautiful woman rose to strangle that voice. “Why don’t we get together and talk about it face to face?” With that, a sort of peace becalmed Lauren’s soul. Surrender never felt better.
“Oh my God Lauren, I prayed you would say that…”
*
The next morning after a brief exchange over the scratchy intercom, Val buzzed Lauren in. Lauren’s apprehension mounted as she climbed the carpeted risers of the graceful brownstone. Then she reached the third floor and looked down the hall, where Valerie stood in her open doorway dressed in a red robe and white satin nightgown. Her curly blonde hair, cut to her shoulders, framed her puffed, sad face. Lauren walked down the hallway, and as she neared Val, her ex-girlfriend put out her arms.
Lauren took her hands, and leaned forward to embrace Valerie. “It’s so good to see you,” she murmured in Valerie’s ear. In response, Valerie burst into tears.
“Thank you so much for coming…I didn’t know who else to call. There was no one else I could call.”
Valerie explained that her landlady had invoked a law that permitted eviction for a tenant’s failure to keep the premises clean and sanitary. While Val made tea in the kitchen, Lauren surveyed the crammed living room, shocked by the compulsivity on display. The commodious apartment, one of those grand old flats that took up half a floor and featured three bedrooms and a den, looked like St. Vincent De Paul on donation day.
Lauren gasped at how far down the drain Val’s life had gone. When they had lived together, Val’s drawers and closet had been untidy, but since then Val’s cyclonic impulses had spilled out and into every spare inch of living space. Bookshelves lined one wall; books were stuffed into the shelves, piled atop each other, but also loose papers, magazines, folders, brochures, maps, bowls, pens, a calculator, a thermometer, silk flowers, a collection of Hummel children. The wall opposite preserved no bare space either, home to a variety of objects—the largest of which was the massive walnut cabinet Val had inherited from her grandfather. Gothic trefoils and ogive arches decorated its obsidian surface. A spinet piano stood next to the cabinet. Lauren pressed a dusty piano key and a tinny note issued.
Several framed photographs sat atop the piano. Lauren remembered them from her time living with Val. There was Val’s grandfather, Roland “Rolly” Stone, a Seattle legend who had made a fortune in lumber, land, and construction, smoking one of his signature cigars, his eyes twinkling. He sat in a wicker chair on the porch of the family’s Madison Park house, which Val had inherited—and sold—after his death. In the photograph next to him was a weak chinned balding man: Val’s father Grady, who had suffered complete liver failure trying to fill Roland Stone’s exceptional shoes. A third frame presented pudgy Howard at his graduation from the University of Puget Sound, standing between Val and their grandfather.
All the men in Val’s family were divorced, and so Val was the only woman in any of the pictures. In one photo, she crouched in a starting block, her ass voluptuously high, competing in track and field. In another, she balanced on skis as she waited to try out for the 1994 Olympic team.
Lauren squeezed between the piano and an overstuffed armchair covered with an ersatz slipcover made of an old blanket. As she did so, Lauren caught a flicker of motion from the walnut cabinet. In the decorative hutch, which rested atop the hip-high bureau (the cabinet was in two weighty pieces), hung a mirror, age-spotted and filmed with dust. A fuzzy image of her pale, wan face stared back at her.
In the mirror, feral sparks lit the green eyes behind the coke-bottle glasses. An almost overwhelming desire to flee the room caused the flesh on her upper arms to prickle. The muscles in her hips, legs, and lower back contracted, coiling for a leap. The cabinet seemed to loom above her, stretching out, drawing her in. Something deep in her lower abdomen twisted and compressed. Two weeks early flitted moth-like through her mind. She pulled her gaze away from her reflection as though pulling her feet out of ankle-deep muck, and, with a gasp, she turned toward the light.
The living room’s bay window looked out on 18th Avenue over the roofs of the houses across the street toward the far vista of the Cascade Mountains. In front of the window, on a low console table, stood row upon row of spider plant, aloe, heliotrope, jade plant, philodendron, and pothos.
Lauren went to the plants, grateful for the distance between her and the cabinet. She touched a stem, and focusing on its life, brought her breath under control. Her shoulders relaxed and lowered.
According to the Feng Shui bagua, the cabinet stood in Val’s relationship corner. It was as obvious as the vortex of a maelstrom disappearing into the depths of a cold, dark sea—this was the black hole at the center of Val’s life. How could Lauren have missed it? Roland Stone had passed away while Lauren was living here, and this cabinet had come into their lives shortly thereafter. However, Lauren had been preoccupied with Val’s drinking, which had taken a big turn for the worse. She
had chalked that up to grief at the time.
Val entered from the kitchen carrying a tray with a shell-white porcelain teapot flanked by cups and saucers from four different sets.
“I love your plants,” said Lauren, smiling. “They can stay. Let’s get started right after tea.”
“Today?” said Val, “But, I’ve got two weeks…”
“There’s no better time to start,” said Lauren, putting milk in her tea cup. “Clearing clutter is more than just throwing away junk. It’s a process of removing obstacles from your environment, yes, but also from your inner life. To allow harmonious energies to flow through you, and to let wonderful new opportunities emerge.”
Val surveyed the living room. “Ugh,” she said, and shivered.
“It will make a tremendous difference. ‘Clutter’ is derived from the same root word as ‘clot:’ something coagulated. Unblock, make room, let your energy flow.”
“Okay, okay.”
“It won’t be easy,” said Lauren.
“Nothing is ever easy. Sure, let’s do it.” Val smiled, and in response, Lauren felt her own energy flow.
*
Throughout the balance of the morning, Lauren and Val conducted essentially a spring cleaning. Into the recycling bin went the old newspapers, magazines, catalogs, flyers, unopened junk mail: offers for credit cards, coupons, pleas for money from local charities, alumni magazines from several different institutions of higher learning. “I don’t know why I receive them,” said Val, “I never went there.” At lunch time, Val was giggling and giddy with laughter. Bone weary, Lauren was convinced her menses were imminent.
After lunch, which consisted of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches – a child’s meal, Lauren thought, comfort food – they began on the banker’s boxes. Lauren made two piles—one for immediate recycling and one for papers that deserved a second look. Most of the items went into the immediate pile: old statements, doctor bills from ten years ago, bank statements and cancelled checks from the early eighties, from accounts that no longer existed at banks that had long since merged with other conglomerates, various kinds of stationery, receipts. Lauren ruthlessly disposed of everything that was more than seven years old. They finished the banker’s boxes by five o’clock, kept enough to fill two boxes, threw the other ten into the recycling bin, and Lauren staggered to her car after promising Val that she would return at nine o’clock next morning.
*
When Lauren started in on the bookshelves, Val at last burst into tears.
“I don’t know why I have to get rid of my books,” she protested, “What if I need them—you know—for reference?”
“Here’s a manual for DOS 2.11—what value does it have? None. Out it goes.”
Val’s face flushed with resentment. “Well, you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”
Lauren softened. Her chin lowered. “Look, Val, most of your reference books are old and out of date—especially the computer books. These were all written in the early 90’s. Here’s a manual for WordStar. Technology has come a long way since then. And your novels—they’re all best sellers and most of them are still in print. If you ever want to re-read one, you can just pick it up used.”
“You’re not touching my poetry!” said Val, moving to block a bookshelf with her body like Scarlett O’Hara protecting Tara from the Yankees.
“No, that stays,” said Lauren, tossing books into plastic bags. The books that went: all titles by Stephen King, Belva Plain, Barbara Taylor Bradford, and Jeffrey Archer, as well as one entire bookshelf of young adult and children’s books. The books that stayed: Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, Leaves of Grass, Origin of Consciousness, The Road Less Traveled, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, Man’s Search for Meaning, the Bible. Lauren felt a stab of recognition and sympathy; Val knew, if only subconsciously, that she wanted release from the imprisonment of the past, and she’d looked for it in these books.
Lauren piled the stuff to be removed from the apartment in the dining room, then went to the bookshelves in the bedroom. Val paced from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom and back again. Once in a while, she’d bring something, an item of clothing, an old toothbrush, a crusted, ancient canister of mousse, and put it into a plastic bag. She moved with all of the animation of a zombie. A little while later, the overture to The Flying Dutchman blared out of the living room from Val’s ancient stereo. Lauren couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh.
That evening Lauren did some bodywork with Val, first massage; then she used a kind of hybrid Reiki energy release technique. The effect was dramatic. Val fell into a sleep so deep it was indistinguishable from unconsciousness. Lauren let herself out after turning out the lights and leaving a message for Val that she would return in the morning.
*
The next morning, they began on the closets. Out went every article of clothing Val hadn’t worn in the last two years. Garbage bags quickly filled and were stacked in the dining area next to the piles of books that were going to Goodwill. Old paper items were put into the recycling bin. Val kept the Christmas cards, but tossed the envelopes they came in, keeping only the envelopes with return addresses.
After the closets, they commenced on the drawers in the bedroom. Out went any article of clothing that showed wear, frayed elastic, discoloration, or age. Lauren found a drawer containing nothing but orphan socks. Out they went. By the time they were finished with the bedroom, two of the three dressers were empty, and the clothes that remained in the closet hung on only one side of the rod, and four pairs of shoes had been winnowed down from thirty. The wardrobe contained two sets of bed linen down from sixteen, a comforter and an extra blanket.
In the master bath, Val tossed everything that she hadn’t used in recent memory. Lauren let her have the bathroom to herself. She was pleased that Val was starting to get into the spirit of clearing clutter. Her newfound ruthlessness with throwing away stuff she didn’t use, hadn’t used, would never use again, was good to see. Her pinched expression had softened overnight. Maybe it was the bodywork they’d done the day before—but maybe Val’s blocks were crumbling. A while later, Bach began to play in the living room, one of the Brandenburg Concerti, a cheerful, prancing melody that made Lauren feel light as cottonwood fluff.
“When did you quit Heart and start listening to classical music?” asked Lauren.
“Oh, those are grandpa’s old albums. My brother Howard didn’t want them and told me to take them. They’re all Deutsche Gramophone. Grandpa liked German music—Wagner, Bruckner, Bach and Beethoven. But I still love the Wilson sisters.”
Val made tuna salad niçoise for lunch. Lauren ate heartily. Then they turned to the living room. The filing cabinets were next. Val had kept receipts from the phone company, Seattle City Light, her life insurance policy through Fraternal Lutheran, her health insurance through King County Medical, brochures from every community college and four year institution in western Washington, travel brochures, maps, instruction manuals for electronic equipment she no longer owned, leases from apartments she lived in ten years ago. Out it went. She kept personal correspondence from family and friends. By the time they finished, one entire cabinet was empty and the other had files in only one drawer.
“The dining room’s getting full—maybe we should make a run to Goodwill,” said Lauren.
“It will take several trips in the car,” said Val. “Do you know someone who has a truck?”
“Val, I’m a lesbian. Of course I know someone who has a truck.” Lauren washed her hands and pressed Marge Burns’ contact on her cell. “Hey Marge,” she said when the call connected, “It’s Lauren. I need a favor…”
While they waited for Marge and her Ford F-250 to arrive, they started on the kitchen. The Belgique stainless steel cookware stayed. Out went practically everything else—faux Tupperware so old and discolored it couldn’t be cleaned, stacks of empty margarine containers, mismatched plates, glasses, bowls, saucers. If a mug or a cup had a chip, out it
went. Everything past date in the cupboards and the refrigerator went to the dumpster.
After Marge arrived, Val, Lauren and Marge filled the truck with items for Goodwill. Two dressers went as well as one of the filing cabinets, all the books, the bed linens, the old clothes, the shoes. Marge drove off after promising to call once she delivered the load to see if there was anything more.
Val looked exhausted and happy. They returned to her apartment which now had a buoyant energy.
“Well, we’re done!” said Val.
“Not quite,” said Lauren. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Lauren led her into the living room and pointed to the cabinet. “That.”
Val shook her head, held out her hands in front of her. “No,” she said, “I’m not... I can’t...”
Her hands flew to her face and she burst into pathetic, wracking sobs, so intense that she sank to the floor.
“Whatever is blocking you is in here.” Lauren opened the first of the drawers that lined the top of the bureau portion of the cabinet. Inside lay a beautiful wooden cigar box, polished with lacquer, stamped with the imprint Joya de Havana. She removed it from the drawer and set it on top of the bureau. Beside it in the drawer rested another. She opened the remaining drawers, removing five additional cigar boxes, all made of wood, all glowing as if covered with honey. Each had small brass clasps on the front and brass hinges. Out of the corner of Lauren’s eye, she caught sight of the face of Val’s grandfather gazing out of his portrait atop the piano, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he sucked on his fat stogie.
Val stopped sobbing and curled into a fetal position on the floor, gently rocking and murmuring to herself.
Lauren opened one of the cigar boxes. Tissue lined the interior, the kind of tissue gift stores wrap around fine porcelain, stark white, soft and elegant. She moved the layers of tissue aside and saw what she first thought was a dirty, ill-used doll—about four inches long, curved and mummified; its tiny fingers no thicker than pencil leads.
Abominations of Desire Page 5