Ladies of Pagodaville

by Ellen Bennett

  Alice offered sincere friendship to Barb, who accepted that willingly. She loved Alice and saw her for the artist she was and might become.

  Barb was also Alice’s only friend in Gloucester.

  Alice continued painting with one hand while blowing on her hot coffee with the other. Barb sat down on the uneven boards of the pier and crossed her legs, sipping her own beverage while looking out over the still waters of the bay. She inquired, “So, do you have any further thoughts about the Florida thing?”

  Alice nodded. “I’m going to go.”

  Barb sighed. “Crap. That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  Alice sipped her coffee. “I have to get out of here, Barb.”

  Barb put her hand on Alice’s leg and squeezed, knowing full well why Alice had to leave Gloucester.

  Barb’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

  FOUR

  September 28, 1980

  Chicago, Illinois

  LINDY SUTTON

  David Stone faced Lindy from across the small cafe table, his eyes all squinty-like. “You’re really going to go through with this, Lindy?”

  She sipped her tea. Emphatically, in her best Southern drawl, she answered, “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “You’ve got deadlines. How is that going to work with your deadlines?”

  She regarded David, rolling her eyes. Sometimes he could be so annoying. “There is this new thing called the mail. What’s got you so uptight? It’s not like I’m moving to the moon, for Christ’s sake.”

  He shifted in his chair. “I know, but what’s going to inspire you in northern Florida? Heat? Humidity? Gulls?”

  She pursed her lips. “I get my inspiration from interacting with people. This place in Florida, this motel with the cabins, is probably teeming with activity.”

  David sighed. “I know you’ll meet your deadlines. You always do. But …”

  “I think my creativity will blossom there.” She added, “And I’m quite used to the heat and humidity. Don’t forget I was born and raised in Atlanta.”

  David scowled.

  In an even deeper southern drawl, she daintily said, “Now, David, if you want to drop me as a client I would showly understand.”

  He sat up straighter in his chair, “Oh Christ, Lindy. Your material is hot right now, and we can’t afford to lose that momentum.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to stop? A change of scenery and pace will only make things more interesting don’t you think?”

  David tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. “Okay. So, how will you support yourself? Will you have to put your work aside to make ends meet? How will you get down there, and how will you get around?”

  She frowned, then answered him. “What’s with the third degree?”

  David did not answer her. His nostrils flared.

  She sighed. “I’m going to fly down to Atlanta, spend some time with my dad. He pulled my mom’s Mustang out of storage and is getting it ready for the drive down to Florida. I have money in savings. The rent is dirt cheap and the cabin is furnished with the basics. So … oh, and let’s not forget those hefty royalty checks from you guys.” This said with raised eyebrows.

  David raised his hand, palm toward her. “I know … I’m working on that.”

  Lindy muttered, “Uh huh.” She took a bite of her scone.

  She was so ready for this move down to Florida. Her creative fuel was starting to dip below the halfway mark. She prayed that the move to Florida would replenish the coffers.

  Born into one of the wealthier families of the Deep South, Lindy was the eldest of three children to Horace and Vera Sutton.

  Lindy had a zest for life. She embraced it with the innocence of a youngster. But because of her size—tall like her father and zaftig like her mother—growing up was a challenge among the slender, very lady-like southern belles.

  Lindy had her mother’s fair skin, almond-shaped hazel eyes, red hair, and broad encompassing smile. Her features were well placed. Her mother told her she was beautiful. Her father called her his princess.

  But she was often ridiculed.

  The girls might say, “Oh, she has to be funny to cover up for all that fat.”

  “That hair! Like a fire-breathing dragon!”

  Or, in quieter tones, “She’ll never snag a boy, she’s too bossy and big.”

  For Lindy, snagging a boy was never going to be an issue because from a young age Lindy knew she liked girls better than boys. It wasn’t a big epiphany, just something she felt in her heart.

  When Lindy had finally admitted her proclivity to her parents during her senior year in high school, they were not surprised. They embraced her for being honest and forthright, but warned her that the world was not as loving and kind as they were, that she would have to stand tall and stick to her convictions.

  During the summer between her junior and senior year at The Chicago School of Design, Lindy was blindsided with devastating news.

  Vera had been diagnosed with Stage Four ovarian cancer.

  No one caught it in time.

  Lindy was adrift, the light drained from her soul.

  She adored her mother. They were the best of friends.

  The family and nurses rallied around Vera twenty-four-seven for five weeks until her death at home in August 1976.

  Lindy put off going back to school until her father threw down the gauntlet and made her return for the winter session.

  He’d said, “Your mother made me promise that you kids would continue your education and keep going from there.”

  Lindy had had no choice. She wanted to please her father and keep the request of her mother sacred, but she had no steam.

  The breath went out of her. She missed her mother so much that she lost count of the days when she did not get out of bed, shower, change her clothes, or talk to anyone but her family.

  She lost almost fifty pounds. Didn’t care what she looked like. She saw her mother around every corner of the house, smelled her perfume, heard her dulcet tones in every room, and couldn’t look at Vera’s pride and joy, a midnight blue convertible Mustang named Midnight.

  She had gone back to school reluctantly and had tried to get through her studies, tried to concentrate.

  Her journaling reached new levels. She had one for depression, one for anger, one for when she smoked dope, one for when she had no one else to talk to.

  She had gone to a therapist for a while, but even that proved directionless.

  She knew she had to get through the pain on her own. She knew Vera would want her to live life to the fullest. So she had buckled down during her senior year and focused on her studies.

  By the time she graduated from college, she decided to shop her graphic novel More Than Just Clothes in THIS Closet to several agents in town. Most of them turned her down because they weren’t interested in shopping a comic book to publishers, but one agent, David Stone, found her work intriguing. He said it was fresh, funny, and encompassed all walks of life.

  He and Lindy had met several times, and after three months McGill Publishing House signed her on.

  Lindy remained in Chicago instead of going back Atlanta.

  She found an apartment north of the city in the gay-friendly neighborhood of Halsted where she could supplement her monthly stipends from her father with her royalty checks from McGill.

  But the city, her small circle of friends, the culture, it was getting old.

  And, she was unequivocally and painfully single.

  And still unequivocally and painfully angry at God for taking the one woman who had loved her unconditionally and who had left a Vera-sized hole in her heart.

  David pushed his chair back, stood his six-foot frame up, and leaned on the back of his chair, facing her. He started to say something, then closed his mouth, sighing instead.

  He turned on his heel and strode out of the coffeehouse.

  Lindy had to smile. A gentle calm unfurled over her head like a soft blanket landing in slow
motion.

  She was okay with leaving the city.

  She was okay with trying something new, something completely out of the norm. She was more than okay with gathering new fodder. It was time.

  When she had talked with Lorna Hughes at The Pagoda Motel, she was certain the move was meant to be.

  It would be good to get down south again. She missed her dad. And she’d be only one state away from him, not several.

  And who knows what might transpire at this motel thing?

  All she knew was that nothing was guaranteed in life.

  Nothing.

  FIVE

  October 6, 1980

  The Pagoda Motel

  While Lorna and Doreen were getting ready for bed, Doreen asked Lorna, “So, are you all set for the ladies to arrive?”

  Lorna set the book that had arrived earlier that day, on the bedside table.

  Doreen asked, “What’s that?”

  Lorna handed it to her. “This is the book I was telling you about by one of the new tenants.”

  “Hm. A Woman from Brazil by Mariella Vasquez.” Doreen turned it over to look at the picture of the author. “Spanish, huh?”

  “American-born Latina. From New Mexico.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cool, having a published writer on board.”

  “It is. I can’t wait to read it and meet her.”

  Doreen set the book back on the table. “Come here, babe. I want to talk to you about something.”

  Lorna scooted up close to her. “Ooh, sounds serious!”

  “I talked to Vinnie earlier today. I think I should go down to Miami and pick up my gear, mostly tools and more clothes, and maybe a little bit of furniture. But what I was thinkin’ was this. How about we—Milton and me that is—build a little garage for me to work in.”

  Lorna raised her eyebrows. “Um, sure. Where were you thinking of putting this garage?”

  “Well, actually, the empty lot next to the motel. I checked on it earlier this week. It’s a quarter acre. The city of Heatherton owns it. They’d let it go for about five hundred.”

  Lorna had no idea Doreen was even thinking about this. “You surprise me at every corner.”

  Doreen sat up, excited. “It wouldn’t be a big place, y’ see. Just enough room to set up tools and a bay. I could work on everyone’s car, or what have you.”

  “Are you going to buy the land?”

  Doreen nodded her head. “I put some money down on it, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Lorna knew Doreen had a decent stash of money from her inheritance. Where she kept it and how she handled it wasn’t something she readily disclosed. One side of Lorna did battle with how Doreen came about her money, and the other side reasoned no questions asked.

  Lorna knew Doreen could read cars and engines with her eyes closed. It was uncanny how she could hear the slightest nuance of something amiss under the hood of a vehicle.

  Lorna finally said, “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  “You want to come down to Miami and meet Vinnie and the boys?”

  “I have to be here. The ladies will be arriving over the next few days. When were you thinking of going?”

  “Well, I was going to rent a van and drive it down. The sooner the better. Maybe Milton would like to go with me?”

  “Ask him. The two of you are thick as thieves anyhow. He’d probably love the break.”

  “Can you spare him for a few days, a week maybe?”

  “Of course. Anya and I have this.”

  “Well, I’m excited. How about you? You think this a good move?”

  Lorna nodded. “Well, as Anya would say …”—she gave it her best accent—“… yes, Miss, I think you are making a good movement.”

  Doreen chuckled, “Good impersonation. So I’ll rent the truck and we’ll leave in a few days. That sound okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  They chatted for a little while longer before Doreen yawned and sprawled out under the sheets. “Goodnight, babe.”

  Lorna kissed Doreen lightly on the mouth, “Do you mind if I read for a while?”

  Doreen rolled over. “Just come spoon when you’re ready to fall asleep.”

  Lorna puffed and propped her pillows, then reached for the book from the nightstand.

  She studied the front and back covers. She liked the front art. It resembled a block-like Picasso rendition of a woman leaning into and plucking guitar strings. The colors were browns and tans against an ecru background. The letter font in the title, like the artwork, was block-like, with the title of the book in a cascade down through the blocks. The author name on the very bottom in one line was bold, but smaller in point size.

  Lorna was impressed.

  She ran her fingers over the soft, slightly thick, cover paper and turned the book over. The head shot of Mariella Vasquez made her look kind, with her dark eyes and an engaging smile. Her hair was tied back, and she wore no makeup.

  Lorna liked her immediately. She looked like a writer—plain yet intelligent. Straight on, no asides.

  After reading the synopsis on the back cover, she knew she was going to be up late reading, if not all night. She was immediately drawn in from the description of the woman in the early 1930s who wanted to play flamenco guitar in a society where women did not do such things. Where women were married off to men before they were twenty, where women did not take women lovers.

  The protagonist, Juliana Benedita, born to a father of business notoriety and a “society” mother, was an enigma to her parents from a young age …

  When Lorna closed the book and laid it gently on her lap, it was almost seven o’clock in the morning.

  With the story still so fresh in her mind, Lorna slipped out of bed and went downstairs. She made the coffee, waited until she could fill her mug, then quietly stepped out the back door and walked down to the beach, book in hand like a talisman.

  A slim mist surrounded her as the sun peeked out over the ocean, the water calm, tide out. She loved this time of the day, as if no one else existed. She felt the immediate chill of the water on her insteps as she walked, and purposefully squeezed the cool sand between her toes.

  She was lost in the world Vasquez created, lost in the character who struggled with having to live two lives.

  In the aftermath of reading, Lorna found herself immersed in the descriptive imagery, in the flow of the words and action. She enjoyed how the information regarding flamenco guitar was woven into the narrative. She never knew how complex the art of playing the guitar was.

  But more than anything, Lorna related to the protagonist with clarity. Even though the story evolved from the ’30s to the ’60s, the pathos was written in such a way as to progress effortlessly through the years.

  When Lorna returned to the motel, Doreen was up and getting her coffee together.

  “Hi, honey, nice walk? Did you sleep good?”

  Lorna answered, showing Doreen the book. “I read this in one sitting.”

  “You were up all night?”

  “All night.”

  Doreen went to hug Lorna. “You must be exhausted!”

  “Not at all. If anything, I’m energized in a quiet kind of way. I don’t think I’ve been so moved by a story.”

  “Wow. Maybe you can tell me about it. I’m not much of a reader.”

  A voice called out from the lobby, “Hola?”

  Lorna returned the greeting, “Hey! We’re in the kitchen.”

  Cheenah hugged Lorna and Doreen briefly. “Good morning. I was just going to go to the Farmers Market. Do you want anything?”

  “Ooh, maybe some melon, blueberries. Here, let me give you some cash.”

  “Oh no, you can pay me later.” Cheenah looked at the book on Lorna’s kitchen table. “What is this?”

  “This,” Lorna picked it up, “is one of the new tenants! She’s a published writer.”

  Cheen
ah reached for the book. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She read the title, nodded her head, and murmured, “interesting,” and turned the book over. “Oh, mi dios! She is most attractive.”

  Lorna said, “She’s a wonderful writer. Why don’t you take the book and read it? I think you’ll fall in love with the story.”

  Cheenah nodded. “Yes, thank you. I would like that very much.” She was still staring at the photograph of Mariella Vasquez, thinking, maybe I will have to fall in love with the writer, too.

  SIX

  October 7, 1980

  Somewhere on Interstate 95 heading south

  PK

  PK rolled down the driver’s side window even though it was raining. Her defroster worked part time, and she began to get that closed-in feeling again.

  She hated freeway driving, and the tangle of highways around Maryland and Washington made her nervous, almost sick to her stomach.

  She took in several deep gulps of air and tried to calm herself down. She wasn’t even halfway to Florida yet.

  She finally pulled off the highway after leaving the cities behind.

  At the rest stop, she gratefully stretched and walked, paced really, around the welcome center. When she calmed down, she ordered some food from a deli vendor.

  She felt so alone. Her last night in New York had been uneventful. Mel and the band bought her a few beers and tried to be upbeat, but because she had broken them up, there wasn’t much to celebrate. Mel was cold and abrasive.

  Jon had taken her out to dinner before the show and reiterated that he would wait patiently for her. “You’re worth it,” he’d said.

  Her parents saw her briefly for dinner in the city the Sunday before she was to depart. “We hope you find what you’re looking for,” they’d said.

  PK felt a dull ache in her chest as she drove away from the only life she had known up until now. When she crossed the state line into Pennsylvania out of New Jersey, she allowed her mind to drift. She knew she was making the right choice by leaving. It was time to close the chapter on her New York life.