The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  Sorry I’m Bleeding

  The love of pleasure begets grief and the dread of pain causes fear.

  BUDDHA, date unknown

  1

  Sandra said: Sorry I’m bleeding.

  That’s okay, said the lesbian.

  She sent Sandra away happy; then came Holly, who was also bleeding.

  Come to think of it, Holly was always bleeding. And one night Holly called her, weeping.

  What’s wrong? asked the lesbian.

  Don’t worry, honey; the doctor said I’ll probably be all right, but I’ll have to get a hysterectomy; I’m a little scared . . .

  I’ll come with you, said the lesbian.

  She had to cancel on Francine, who resented it graciously.

  The waiting room was bright and fake, with a yawning receptionist reigning over sad women reading celebrity magazines. Shining like an October moon over an altar of women, the lesbian held Holly’s left hand while Holly’s right hand paged through a tabloid. The lesbian looked down into Holly’s lap and read: She told me that she sleeps in a silk nightgown, that she must have eight hours of sleep or she’s a wreck, and that she often gathers her friends in her room and holds a back-scratching party. Everyone sits in a circle and scratches everyone else’s back. “If you haven’t had your back scratched, you haven’t lived!” Judy said.

  Holly Liebling, said the receptionist.

  Holly and the lesbian approached the end of the counter, where a nurse stood with a clipboard. Smiling into the lesbian’s face, the nurse said warmly: You must be Holly.

  I am, said Holly.

  The nurse regarded her with disappointment. She said: And who’s this?

  My partner Neva. I want her to come in.

  The nurse peeped at Neva, who smiled at her. That settled it; who could resist the lesbian?

  She led them to the consultation room, took Holly’s temperature and pulse, and left them. The lesbian helped her sweetheart change into a gown. Then the gynecologist came in. Holly lay down with her feet in the stirrups while the lesbian stood at the side of the table, holding her hand. After a quick and gentle examination, the gynecologist went out, returned almost at once and said: I think we’d better schedule the procedure as soon as possible.

  Swallowing hard, Holly said: Do I have cancer?

  It’s still in the very early stage, and I’m confident we can entirely remove the problem, said the gynecologist.

  Oh, my God, said Holly. Oh, my God.

  I love you, said the lesbian, squeezing her hand.

  Oh, God, I love you, too! Neva, I’m afraid—

  The gynecologist said: Ms. Liebling, you’re a lucky lady to have such a beautiful partner. How long have you been together?

  A year, said the lesbian.

  Off and on, inserted Holly, bursting into tears.

  I see, said the gynecologist. Well, I think we’ve caught this in time. I’ll leave you now, and if you would, on your way out just talk with Cindy and she can help you schedule your surgery. Nice to meet you, Neva.

  On the day of Holly’s hysterectomy the lesbian kept her company on the streetcar. She sat next to her in the waiting room. She held her hand when the anesthetic went into her arm. When Holly was dead asleep and snoring, she went to the waiting room and closed her eyes. She felt so tired, nauseous and cold! After two hours they brought Holly out in a wheelchair.—No, explained Cindy, her insurance doesn’t cover any overnights.

  With great effort, Holly slurred out: Please, Neva, can I stay at your place?

  Of course, said the lesbian.

  And all night she held the other woman, who snored trustfully in her arms. Through the next day Holly rested, tended by the adorable lesbian; until by nightfall she had far enough recovered to drink in the utterly fulfilling sensation of caressing Neva’s shoulder, buttock, belly or breast, round and round, over and over.

  But on the day after that, well, as you can well imagine, she had to go, because the rest of us needed our turns.

  2

  Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend! sang the transwoman.

  What is it, honey?

  No, I was just singing your name. By the way, you are going grey. But, Neva, if I ask you something, will you promise not to get mad?

  I promise.

  Who’s the love of your life?

  You are.

  And Shantelle?

  Sure.

  Who was the one before all of us?

  Well, there was an old woman on an island. And she—

  Is that true? I know! And you were both mermaids, right? So you loved her more than you love me.

  No, Judy.

  And before her? Why do you look so sad? That means I’m getting warm, aren’t I? What was her name?

  The lesbian closed her eyes. She was getting cramps.

  Neva, you’ve never held out on me before!

  Of course I have. Some things are private.

  You mean, you really won’t tell me?

  She called herself E-beth but we—

  And you loved her the most?

  Well, at the time I did.

  Where is she?

  I don’t know.

  You’ll never marry me and live with me, will you?

  No, honey, said the lesbian. Just a minute; I need to—

  What about her? If she came and said, Neva, please take me back; I’ll do anything . . . ?

  She wouldn’t.

  But if she did . . .

  Judy, that was long ago. She couldn’t understand me now.

  Well, I can. You know how much I love you! Don’t I understand you? Tell the truth, Neva!

  I’ll be right back, said the lesbian, rushing to the bathroom to have diarrhea. She hurried, because Judy was waiting; Judy was demanding: Don’t I? I need to know!

  You understand the part of me that—

  Excuse me, but that’s evasive bullshit. Are you going to make me cry?

  I was saying, the part of me that loves you in the way you love me. There’s a different part for everybody.

  You’re saying that nobody gets the whole you. Right?

  You can put it that way . . .

  Well, I don’t believe it. I just don’t.

  I’m sorry, said the lesbian.

  It’s not very nice, the transwoman sobbed. I feel so . . .

  Please forgive me, said the lesbian. And she bought her a stick of fancy lip-plumping gel for an early Christmas present.

  3

  When Shantelle raised the same topic, the argument played out differently. To be specific, she hit the lesbian again.

  For an instant her rage exhilarated her; she resembled Athena scream-grinning, with golden feathers blossoming from her shoulder-wings. She longed to crush Neva into red and brown stains.

  Then she worried about what Neva would do. Other women she’d punched around had stopped fucking her, stopped loving her, attacked her or called the police. But Neva only smiled at her.

  Neva had a black eye. Neva kept smiling and silently weeping. Shantelle felt so sad she could hardly stand it!

  She craved to drink from her mouth, and thus be her, but most of all she needed to destroy that smile.

  She said: Maybe you’re tryin’ to act like Buddha or Jesus or something. Well, Neva, guess what? By pretendin’ not to care you’re just a goddamn coward. Come to think of it, you’re a motherfuckin’ coward.

  Motherfucking, that’s me, said the lesbian.

  Sorry, babe, said Shantelle. I don’t know why I said that. But anyway, so what? Just because I cursed you out, you gotta make a grudge against me?

  No, I love you the same.

  Clenching her fists, Shantelle demanded: Why won’t you let me in? Bitch, what are you doin’ to me?

  Coolly and st
eadily (that being the way to reach this woman) the lesbian said: I’m pretty simple, actually—just legs and tits and three holes for people to use. Mostly I don’t feel or plan anything—

  When I punched you, you sure as shit felt something then!

  Neva smiled at her.

  Didn’t you, bitch?

  No, it happened to someone else.

  That’s a lie! Look at them tears! And you’re always schemin’ things out, callin’ us here, sendin’ us away—

  I’m only reactive.

  What does that mean?

  It means you lead and I follow.

  Shantelle’s face locked down. She ran out, slamming the door. The lesbian got up to ice her black eyes. A quarter-hour later Shantelle came knocking and pounding. The lesbian did not answer. Shantelle began kicking the door until the manager and his cousin expelled her.

  An hour after that it was Francine’s turn. At the first knock, the door opened.

  Neva, my God, what happened to you?

  Come lie down with me, sweetheart.

  Why won’t you tell me?

  The lesbian, smiling at the other woman so lovingly or at least compliantly, thought: You can’t even begin to know me.—She said: Everything’s okay.—Her eyes rolled up and she began snoring.

  And until one in the morning Francine watched the lesbian huddled on the dark bed, so slender and hollowed out that the bed might as well have been empty.

  4

  That was the point when she finally asked me what we should do for Neva.

  There perched Samantha with her wine cooler and Xenia with her Old German Lager, who was confessing to Sandra: You know, I just didn’t think about it then, because I had kids; I never had an orgasm until I was with a woman . . .—and then, proceeding rightward, Holly, Selene and Victoria, like those pairs of sad girls who sit side by side in the dark back booths of strip clubs, waiting for enough men to enter that the bright blonde whirling and squatting girls in the blue light will accept reinforcements; now Francine and I had become the bright deciders; our names went up in secret lights.—Just then the Europeans were absent, leaving our contingent of slummers perfectly well represented by the pretty intern who loved to talk about babies and who now explained to Francine that her mother had phoned her aunt, who was absolutely forcing her to pick out a graduation dress for which her mother would pay. Francine said: Tell your mother to buy me a dress, at which the intern awoke from her dream of sisterhood to realize that she was in the wrong place and maybe even in trouble. She fled quickly, leaving no tip, and that was all we ever saw of her.

  I, who nearly always advocated doing nothing, reminded Francine that to our knowledge the retired policeman had blacked the transwoman’s eye on at least two occasions, and we had stayed out of it. Anyhow, wasn’t Neva a grownup?

  That’s because Judy’s different. Their relationship, you know—

  She thrives on it.

  I know, I know. But when Shantelle hits Neva, that’s not consensual.

  How can you tell, Francine? Who knows what Neva lets others do to her? Listen. Are you ready to swear that she ever gets off?

  Yes.

  You bring her to orgasm, every time?

  Don’t you?

  That’s the point. Are we all such red-hot lovers, or does she—

  Neva does not fake it. Not ever. And if you are so fucked up—

  So what gets her off? Everything, right?

  But, Richard, how do you feel, seeing that bruise?

  I hate Shantelle for hurting her. But Neva—

  Did you ask her?

  About this? No.

  Well, I did.

  I can guess what she told you: Don’t worry, and it’s okay . . .

  You nailed it.

  So let’s not go against Neva. But if you want to warn Shantelle—

  Then she’ll starting raging.

  So you’ll eighty-six her—

  And she’ll go charging off and maybe . . .

  Exactly. What if she really does hurt her?

  Just as when one sees a hooded mound of clothes in a wheelchair on Taylor Street, and cannot tell whether a person is inside, so I now stared into Francine, who might as well have been a robot; then I went out, somewhere, anywhere, which is to say into the lovely jet-blackness of Taylor Street on this rainy night when headlights shone like precious and semiprecious beads; I decided to hook up with the retired policeman.

  5

  Her high school girlfriend was Elizabeth Jackson, he said.

  You mean Jane Doe, I said.

  Fuck off, smartass. In her junior and senior years Karen Strand checked into at least four hotel rooms with an Elizabeth Jackson, who was then either twenty-three or twenty-six. This may be the same Elizabeth Jackson who was charged with statutory rape in 1996. And that’s significant, because when a woman does it, he informed me in a well-nursed rage, they usually let her off, as in this case. You or I wouldn’t have a chance.

  Yeah, I said.

  Our background was the lovely body of a stripper squatting in the rosy light, writhing on the floor, working her buttocks into a sort of pout, slowly pulling down her G-string, then touching her hair with both hands, doubtless in order to give her breasts a lift, while an old couple quietly watched her, hand in hand; two chairs away from them was the rugged old man who kept quietly respectfully stepping up to the stage to lay down another dollar-offering; behind him sat the two of us, addressing the matter of Neva.

  Since the retired policeman was getting distracted, I asked: Who was raped?

  Another high school girl, Virgilie Ferraro from Martinez, who insisted it was consensual: Elizabeth Jackson was the love of her goddamn life. Well, the D.A. didn’t give a shit about the love part.

  What happened to Virgilie?

  Became an elementary school teacher. Maybe she’s passing on whatever Elizabeth taught her. You know, physical education.

  What about Elizabeth?

  Never even had to register as a sex offender. Clerks in a medical marijuana dispensary in El Cerrito. Apparently keeps clear of Vallejo, where the crime took place; that’s also where Karen went to high school.

  I said nothing, so he continued: Used to be a dog groomer, but she fuckin’ loves cats. I’ve been to her place. Wide-eyed furballs everywhere. The kennel or whatever it is just changed owners, but she’s still . . .

  I told him: If you don’t stand for something, you fall for everything.

  Suddenly as out of sorts as a stripper who gets suddenly called upon to be awake before noon, he looked me up and down, saying: What the hell does that mean?

  Oh, I said. It’s motivational.

  Well, keep me away from that positive bullshit. I only do negativity.

  Is Elizabeth positive or negative?

  I depolarized her. Made it clear I was on to her about our Karen. Gave her some fear. Now, Richard, don’t babble about this, not to Judy by a long shot and not even to Francine. I’m almost where I want to be, and you’re not gonna muck it up. Okay?

  Okay.

  Neva really is Karen Strand, or someone who looks like her. The Jackson bitch gave a positive I.D. I told her I’d come back, but I may not need to. Well, Sherlock? What’s my next move?

  Finishing my bourbon and sodapop, I proposed: DNA test?

  He laughed at me. He said: You wanna take away the interactive element. Without that, how can a cop get his jollies? And the lab in Hayward charges up to fifteen hundred to run an envelope that may or may not have saliva or little pieces of skin. The accuracy is still quite controversial, apparently. They’ve isolated sixteen segments of the DNA string, and at each of those sites, they lock on a link, and then, you know, they can’t quite do homo- versus heterozygous . . .—but that’s above your goddamn pay grade.

  Then send in the cavalry. Call in an
air strike. No, wait! I said. Why not interview Karen’s relatives?

  Frowning, he said: If this were a novel, you’d have spoiled my suspense.

  6

  Holly called weeping, because her labs had come back neither dirty nor clean; she didn’t know how to get through the next four days until her second biopsy. She said: Neva, I can’t even think; I can’t sleep; I’m so nervous, and now they’re docking my pay at work and if I miss another day this week I’ll get a letter of reprimand—

  Honey, come and see me, said the lesbian.

  But isn’t it Francine’s turn?

  I’ll explain it to her. Don’t worry.

  She came to cry and be held. The lesbian embraced her tightly, stroking her back in that way which for Holly was magic. Finally the sad woman fell asleep.

  When she awoke it was three in the morning. The lesbian, thirsty, hungry and exhausted, was still holding her, staring at the wall, subsumed in unceasing guilty dread about failing her and all of us. Holly said: Oh, my God, Neva, you look worn out . . . !

  I didn’t want to let go of you. Because I love you.

  I wish I could do something for you. It’s not fair, the way you take care of all of us.

  But it makes me happy to be loved. Holly, I . . .

  Oh, you look so tired! Are you hungry? I could order up some pizza, or we could go out; that halal place on the corner is really fast—

  Are you hungry?

  No, just . . . just shaken up—

  Let’s go to bed, said the lesbian. Just sleep in my arms.

  Neva, if I could do one thing for you, what would it be?

  The lesbian said: Well, it would make me very happy if you’d kind of take Judy in hand and—

  I don’t care shit about fucking Judy! I want to show my love for you! What’s wrong with you, Neva, that you . . .—Fine. I’m sorry. If that’s what you want, I’ll go to her and . . . What am I supposed to do?

  Teach her about being a woman. She’s always picking everyone’s brains. She maybe or maybe not wants to be a lesbian—

  But she’s with that prick who beats her and—

  I know, said the lesbian. But we can’t do anything about that. Let me just pee and brush my teeth. And when you’re ready we can turn out the light.