by Ana Good
“That bad?”
“My God, the worst yet!”
Lily rolled over and kissed Babe on the forehead before drawing her close, nuzzling her face deep into her cleavage.
“Much better,” crooned Babe as she nuzzled into the warmth of her partner’s large, soft breasts.
“Relax. Have a little fun. The children are asleep. Sound asleep.” Lily slid off her diamond rings and ran her hand gently across her partner’s lean hips, raking her flannel pants down a suggestive distance.
Understanding the meaning of this gesture, Babe rolled over and slipped off her pants, completely. When she jumped back into bed, she wasn’t wearing underwear, only one very large grin.
Downstairs, Dirk and her sister, unable to sleep, invaded the basement exercise room. Not Olympic quality, but all the basic gear. Rowing machine. StairMaster. Full set of weights. Two recumbent bikes.
Dirk climbed onto the larger bike. “Race you,” she jeered at her sister.
“You’re on!”
Both Dirk and her sister were in tip-top shape. They pounded the pedals trying to better each other for more than half an hour. The bike gave out before Dirk, the chain jumping the wheel. Dirk cursed as she stopped pedaling and leaned back to gulp air. Sweat soaked both the girls’ tight T-shirts.
Dirk stripped off her T-shirt and tossed it to the floor.
“I win!” proclaimed Thumper, who slumped off the bike and grabbed a red microfiber towel. She mopped her face, then her shoulders.
“No way!” cried Dirk, who’d loped to the corner. She pulled a bottle of vitamin water from the mini fridge. “That old bike gave up, not me,” she protested as she gulped down the bottle.
“Sore loser.”
Dirk grabbed her sister’s towel and flipped her.
Horseplay broke out. Dirk had Thumper pinned to the floor when Candice strolled into the room.
The twins rolled off each other.
“Hi,” said Dirk, who seemed not at all bashful about the fact that she was bare-chested. Sweat glistened on her sinewy pectoral muscles. Her nipples were the palest pink.
“Hi, yourself,” said Candice. “Don’t let me interrupt your fun, girls. I have a routine. Can’t sleep unless I’ve done at least an hour on the StairMaster.”
“They got one,” said Dirk with a nod of her head.
“So I see,” said Candice as she sashayed past the twins in her designer silk yoga pants and matching waist jacket. She mounted the StairMaster, fully aware the twins were watching.
Their stares didn’t bother her. In fact, she enjoyed them. Though Dr. Candice Antwerp was past forty, and a worldly woman, she’d not had all that much girl sex. She hated to lose control. And make a mess. She was, however, amazingly practiced at the art of teasing. “Watch if you want,” she threw over her shoulder at the muscle-bound twins.
“Okay,” said Dirk, who sat on a weight bench facing Candice’s StairMaster and began to pump iron as the doctor quickened her pace on the machine.
Thumper shrugged. “All yours,” she whispered to her sister as she left the cellar to go upstairs and study practice tapes. She hadn’t shot up all day. She had a feeling she’d make it this time. Fuck the Olympic review committee. Her sister was counting on her and there was no one in the world she’d rather not disappoint.
Upstairs, in bedroom number two, Storm marched over to Betty Frump’s twin bed and peeled back the covers. She coughed as clouds of smoke rolled from under the covers and spread like a fog over the dimly lit room.
Betty peered up from her bong, her chapped lips pressed tightly together. She’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to swallow the dope smoke.
Storm picked up her fatigues from the floor and waved them around the room. “You can’t smoke that stuff in here. Against the rules. Besides, isn’t that stuff why you’re here?”
Betty coughed, then shrugged. “My partner’s idea, not mine. Want some? California Dream Potion. Very mellow.” Betty held out the mini bong.
Storm eyed the device. She hadn’t been stoned in eons. Since college. It was the legal pharmaceutical stuff, Percocet in particular, that had her hooked. She had to be clean for the station’s drug test but that wasn’t for another four weeks. Marijuana, she seemed to recall, cleared the system in seven days.
Sighing, she grabbed the bong and sucked a big hit.
“Sorry about today,” coughed Betty. “But don’t you think that Pop Tart is a little young for you?”
“Who’s looking to marry?” The bong had gone out so Storm relit it before handing it back to Betty.
“Free and single. Lucky gal. I’ve been with the same girl almost thirty years.”
“I thought you preached that monogamy stuff.”
Betty giggled. “I do, but that’s the public me. Deep down I’m one wild chick.”
Storm studied Betty’s face. Without glasses she didn’t look nearly so unapproachable. God knew what kind of body she kept hidden under those triple-X-sized caftans. “So, that penetration thing. You really don’t believe that nonsense, do you?”
Betty giggled. “That’s for me to know” — she palmed the bong to Storm — “and for you to find out.”
16. Shoveling Shit
Group the next morning began with dead silence.
Good, thought Babe, as she rolled a squeaky-wheeled white board into the center of the room. She’d been doing therapy long enough to know silence meant the girls were beginning to realize they were on the edge of some very deep shit.
Slowly, in large block letters, Babe wrote on the board: “ADMIT TO MYSELF AND OTHERS THAT I AM POWERLESS OVER MY ADDICTION. THAT MY LIFE HAS BECOME UNMANAGEABLE.”
Babe underlined the last word, “unmanageable,” twice.
Babe faced the group. “What does this mean?”
Dirk shrugged. Her sister, too.
Bunny, who was creaming the backs of her hands with a two-hundred-dollar tube of Parisian skin revitalizer, followed suit.
Candice sat motionless, arms locked against her pink Armani jacket.
Nan knew precisely what the words meant, but refused to volunteer an answer. If Dr. Phil of Dykeville wanted her vulnerable, let the old bitch work for it.
Dylan Redford was busy thinking about what she was going to do to Ginger Fitzgerald, the art critic, for getting her sentenced to this icy hellhole. Like she needed to waste a month of her life listening to a bunch of drug-addicted lesbo losers.
Wee Gee’s hand shot into the air.
Babe ignored Wee Gee for a minute, hoping one of the newcomers might take a crack. When no one volunteered, she pointed a finger at Wee Gee, who burst out, “That’s the first step to recovery. First, we have to admit we have a problem, and that it’s screwing us up. If we can’t admit this, we can’t get better.”
Babe turned to Storm. “What does this first step mean to you, Storm?”
The war correspondent chewed her bottom lip. “It means … I have a problem. I take drugs to sleep. I take drugs to wake up.” She stopped, a pained look on her face.
No one said a word.
Babe continued. “How has that affected your life?”
“I could lose my job. My boss, my agent, sent me here to get clean.”
“You like your job?”
Storm’s face brightened. “Love it.”
“Pays well?”
“Couple of million a year, plus bonuses.”
Poppy gasped. “For talking on the telly?”
Storm reared back. “Yeah, for talking on the telly … with bullets whizzing past my precious little ass. See this?” Storm rolled up the right leg of her fatigues tight to her knee. A white scar ran the perimeter of her knee before taking off like jagged lightening up her thigh.
“Bugger!” Poppy fingered the wound.
“That,” said Storm, “came from a mortar shell that ripped through the side of my Hummer. Damned lucky. Guy next to me got cut in half. I ended up with his brains leaking into my lap.”
Babe spoke. �
��So, Storm, do you think you can control yourself, stop taking drugs when you want?”
“Sometimes,” Storm said, busy rolling down her fatigues.
“You’re sure about that?”
Storm lifted her eyes and met Babe’s gaze. “Okay. Maybe I lied. Truth is, if I could have stopped by myself I would have. Not to insult any of you, but I fucking hate groups.”
Several people giggled.
Babe thanked Storm for her honesty then addressed each woman in turn with the same question she put to Storm. Things went smoothly until she hit Dr. Candice.
Candice was sitting so upright on her therapy pillow Babe thought her spine might crack. She’d never met anyone with such rigid posture. She made a mental note to try some deep breathing work with the good doctor. “Candice,” she said, “what does this first step mean to you?”
“I’ve never been out of control in my life. Never. Not once.” Candice locked her arms tighter against her bosom. “I didn’t physically assault anyone, like you.” She narrowed her eyes in accusation at Dylan and Poppy. “And I’m not killing myself with gluttony.” She shot a nasty cold gaze at Wee Gee.
Babe twisted her lips. “Candice, are you breathing?”
“Pardon?”
“Breathing. Are you?”
The doctor exhaled. “Of course.”
Babe turned to the group. “Anyone have anything to say to Candice?”
Poppy gave it a try. “It’s okay, love. We’re all in the same sinking boat.”
The tiny lines at the edge of Dr. Antwerp’s eyes jumped. “You still live with your mother, correct?”
It was Poppy’s turn to stiffen now. “Sometimes. But I have my own place in Chelsea. A townhouse used to belong to Winston Churchill. Say, what are you saying? That I’m too young to know anything? That it?”
“If the slipper fits, Spice Girl.”
Poppy was on her feet now.
Storm intervened, dragging Poppy back to her pillow. “She’s scared,” she advised Poppy. “Give her some room.”
Poppy sat back, allowing Storm to quiet her.
Babe spoke. “I want everyone to think about this first step. Especially you, Candice. We’ll come back to it tonight. In the meantime, I’ve listed your job assignments for the week. The list is on the refrigerator. You start your chores this afternoon. You will be rated on how well you perform your work. I expect you to do your best. You’ll get points for everything you do. Earn enough points and you can have things, like phone privileges.”
The group broke apart, everyone in a glum mood.
Flipping hair out of her eyes, Dylan figured she might as well get her chores done. She needed to call her agent, but Babe held her cell phone hostage. She hoped she’d drawn something interesting, not some girly thing, like dishes. She wasn’t happy when she read the list. Her job was to shovel out the barn.
Shovel moose poop.
And she had to work in partnership with Bunny Van Randolph.
17. Gay and Disgruntled
Bunny placed her hands on her hips as she read the posted chore list over Dylan’s shoulder. “No way!” she whined.
Dylan shrugged as she swept a mop of hair from her right eye. “Snowshoes in the corner. Let’s go. Get this over with, Bun Bun.”
Bunny’s face fell into a pout. “No.”
Ignoring her, Dylan sprawled on a bench by the back door and began strapping on a pair of snowshoes. “Come on!” she gruffed, grabbing Bunny by a hand. “Let’s get this crap over with. I need to call my agent, and those weirdo old ladies have my cell.”
Bunny stood her ground. “Go ahead, if you want. I’m taking a hot tub.” Serious, Bunny trounced toward the stairs determined to immerse herself in a hot pot of water.
Dylan grabbed the tail of Bunny’s Italian lace blouse. “Hold on, sister.”
Bunny bounced backward into Dylan’s arms. “Let go!”
“No.”
Bunny tried to bite Dylan, but Dylan was quicker and dodged the danger. “I said we’re cleaning that barn. I need my cell. Understand?” Dylan ground out the words. She squeezed Bunny’s forearm and held on like a demon vise grip.
“That hurts!”
“Good.”
Bunny spun around to face Dylan. “Oh boohoo! Big mean art dyke, are you?”
Dylan let go of Bunny’s arm. “Look,” she proclaimed as she yanked her black jean jacket from a hook near the back door, “you gonna help clean this barn or not?”
Bunny studied Dylan’s jacket. The back yoke bore a pink, stenciled message: “Gay & Disgruntled.” The right sleeve read, “Chick with a Dick.” The left one read, “Lucy was gay. Just ask Ethel.”
“Who does your wardrobe?”
“What?”
“Your clothes. Who designs your clothes?”
“I do. I believe clothes are art. They should reveal who you are.”
“Yeah, I can see that. But why turn yourself into a freaking public-service billboard?”
“Isn’t that what you do? Short dresses, high heels.” Dylan backed away and slapped a finger frame around Bunny as though sizing her up for a photo shoot. “I mean, you’re like a freaking femme highway sign. Your clothes scream slut!”
Bunny stuck out her tongue.
“Sorry, you’ll have to get someone else to suck that for you. I’ve got work to do.”
Dylan stumbled uncertainly toward the back door, her right hand steadying herself against the wall as she progressed, her left hand fruitlessly shoving the hair out of her eyes. The huge webbed shoes made her walk bowlegged. She shot a glance over her shoulder at Bunny, who was now sitting on the bench, struggling to strap her thigh-high red velvet Prada snow boots into a pair of snowshoes.
Bunny tried to stand, but wobbled and fell.
Again, same result.
Dylan clattered back to the bench. “Spread your thighs!” she growled at Bunny. “Just a little.”
“Is that a come on? Because if it is, I’ve heard better, like, a bazillion times, Ms. Dykey Pants.” Bunny stuffed herself into a pink silk down jacket and matching fur-trimmed mittens.
“Just trying to help.”
Bunny raised her chin in defiance. “Trying to cop a feel, more like it.”
“Whatever, Bun Bun.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Stop acting like some sort of freakin’ airhead and I’ll consider it.”
Brushing Dylan aside, Bunny stood firm. One huge step. Two. “I’ll help shovel your old barn. But just this once. Understand? And it’s not for you. It’s for me. I want my phone back, too.”
“Whatever you say, Bun Bun.” Dylan eyed the backyard through the glass in the door. Snowdrifts snuggled tightly against one another. She shivered. Unlike Bunny, she didn’t have gloves. No hat or earmuffs, either.
Dylan turned to face Bunny. “You got another pair of those you could loan me?”
“What? These?” Bunny held up her fur-frosted hands.
“Yeah, those.”
“Sure. I’ve got, like, a gazillon pairs. What’s in it for me?”
Dylan raked the hair from her eyes. “I’ve got stuff.”
“Stuff?” Bunny’s eyes widened.
“Yeah. Pills.”
“What?”
Dylan looked nervously around the kitchen, then the backyard. “Ecstasy. Pure. Loads of the stuff.”
“Get out of here. You do not!”
“Do.” Dylan whispered.
“Okay, I’ll loan you a pair of my gloves. But you better not be lying.”
“I’m not. Just get the gloves, Muffy.”
18. Failure Not an Option
Upstairs, Dr. Candice was trying to decipher which end of the vacuum cleaner hose went into the cleaning canister, and which end should stay free to suck dirt. At home, a gang of Dominican domestics dealt with such daily issues for her.
Dirk was leaning against the wall of the hallway, arms locked against her chest, scrutinizing the doctor. They’d been assigned to vacuu
m the upstairs together. They’d been trying for half an hour to bring the vacuum cleaner, a pot-bellied chrome creature that rolled uncertainly on a set of wobbly wheels, to life.
Dirk leaned down, hands on knees, and squinted. “That’s gotta be wrong. That looks all wrong to me.”
Candice, who was on her knees in the broom closet, glanced up. “Really? And you have like, what … a doctorate degree in vacuumology? Well, how about you try running this thing?”
“Sure. Why not.” Dirk fell on one knee besides Dr. Antwerp. She reconnected the hose and depressed the mammoth red On button.
Nothing happened.
The two women eyed each other.
“What now?” sneered Candice.
“Call one of those old chicks for help?”
Candice made a face. She’d not become Hollywood’s top plastic surgeon by whining for help every time she hit a hard spot. “Oh, give me that! I’m sure we can figure this out.” She disassembled the vacuum and rearranged the hoses and adjusted a nozzle or two. She flipped the switch, but the machine sat lifeless.
“We need help,” muttered Dirk.
“We do not need help. I do not need help.”
“Look, it doesn’t work. We need help.”
“Did you check the bag? These things have bags, right?” Candice fumbled with what appeared to be a latch on the butt end of the canister. A metal door sprang open, spewing out a cloud of dust and debris.
“Aghhh!” cried Candice, dust cutting her eyes. “Get me a towel! Something! Now!”
Dirk stripped off her T-shirt and used it to gently mop Candice’s face. In the process, a good deal of Candice’s makeup came off, too.
“Is my mascara smudged?” Candice asked, looking like a redheaded raccoon with dust balls in its hair.
“Nah. Uh, you look great.”
Candice squinted at her reflection in the butt end of the chrome canister. “Liar.” She wetted her finger and used it to smooth her eyeliner. Slowly, she began raking dust bunnies from her hair.
Dirk rubbed her chin. “Look, we only got half an hour to finish this vacuuming thing. We need help.”
“I have a medical degree. I can do this.”
“The thing won’t work.” Dirk kicked it with the toe of her boot, as if that might encourage the monstrosity to move. “The thing’s dead as dead. How we going to vacuum? What are we supposed to do? Put soap on our tongues and lick the carpet clean?”
