PK’s parents weren’t happy that she’d chosen the rock lifestyle. They maintained that she was smart and could have a good career if only she applied herself.
But she did apply herself.
She bought her first guitar when she was in junior high school. She had saved all summer for it. It was a Gibson, and it sat in the window of Wegner’s music store downtown. She stopped and stared at it every day and fantasized about having it on stage, impressing all the people who never thought she would amount to much in life.
As it turned out, she was a quick study and learned the basics in a matter of days. Her ear was keen. She could listen to a piece of music, pick out the chords and melodies, and re-create the sound on her guitar.
But her parents were sure it was just a phase.
PK knew differently.
She wrote songs from the dark parts of her heart; guitar riffs, melodies, and vocals.
But of late, the music and words seemed overdone. She felt like she had expended the gritty edge—and now, maybe a new opportunity to grow up and out of the immediate darkness was to be her path.
She was done with her family, had been for several years.
When she had answered the ad in the Connection and talked to Lorna Hughes in Florida, a light beckoned. A relief presented itself.
She crumpled up her sandwich wrapping, finished the rest of her cola, stopped at the rest room, and headed to the parking lot.
She said to herself as she climbed back into her old Datsun hatchback packed to the hilt with her equipment, “Maybe my life will be easier to navigate. I can do this.”
The rain had stopped. The roads through Virginia presented PK with stunning vistas of rolling hills, rich verdant pastures of green against a sky where the thick storm clouds gave way to a brilliant blue.
She felt much better leaving the cities and clogged traffic behind. She donned her sunglasses and drove on with a new energy.
She started humming a tune. Something different. Something she would put guitar chords to when she put in for an overnight stay in Fayetteville. She figured if she could make it that far without stopping except for gas, food, and bathroom breaks, she would be halfway there.
More than halfway there.
SEVEN
October 7, 1980
Flight 5650 To Atlanta
LINDY
Lindy finally loosened the death grip on the armrests of her seat when the plane cleared the clouds after a bumpy ascent out of Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. She wasn’t fond of flying, but once things smoothed out, she was able to breathe normally.
A throaty female voice came over the loud-speaker system, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign, and we will be starting our cabin service shortly. We ask you, while seated, to keep your seat belt loosely fastened in case we experience any unexpected rough air. The captain has stated that the weather looks smooth for our two-and-a half hour flight into the Atlanta airport, so, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight!”
Lindy pushed her seat back to a more comfortable position and stole another glance at her seat partner, who had Walkman headphones on his head and his eyes closed.
She thought him lucky that he didn’t seem to mind the whole ordeal of flying—the thrust of power as the big jet rumbled down the runway, the heady feeling of climbing quickly out of a city airport, the inevitable bumps and drops as the plane navigated in windy skies. It was exhilarating and physically taxing at the same time.
She preferred solid pavement underneath wheels she could control.
The clouds far below her window were white and puffy. The sky above her window expanded blue into a deeper blue offset by the sun to the east. She felt closer to her mother, closer to heaven’s reach.
The flight was uneventful, the food was not bad, and when the plane landed in Atlanta it was seventy-eight degrees with a cloudless sky overhead. Lindy strode off the jetway and into her father’s waiting arms at the gate.
“Daddy!” She cooed into his chest.
He hugged her close. “How’s my girl?”
When they walked outside, Lindy took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The warm air felt so good on her city-paled skin. She put her face up to the sun. “Oh, how I’ve missed this.”
Her father led them to the midnight-blue 1973 mint-condition convertible Mustang. “Well, here she is, all ready for you and your trip down to Florida! Do you want to drive her home?”
Lindy ran her hands along the smooth exterior, remembering how fabulous her mother looked driving the vehicle, with her scarf tied around her head and horn-rimmed sunglasses protecting her stunning green eyes from the sun, smiling big as she drove the eye-catching car around town. She would wave at neighbors and strangers alike, not a care in the world—just so damn happy in her midnight blue ’Stang.
Lindy’s father tossed her the keys, “She’s all yours, honey. Look in the glovebox. I brought mom’s favorite kerchief for you to wear.”
“Oh daddy. Thank you!” She pulled a red-and-white polka-dot scarf out of the glovebox, brought the fabric up to her nose and inhaled deeply, then tied it around her head.
She sighed and looked skyward before putting the car in reverse. Just like you, she thought with a slight lump in her throat. Just like you, Mom.
Lindy punched the gas pedal as she entered the expansive freeway system surrounding Atlanta. She felt her mother’s energy all around her as she held the steering wheel in the ten-and-two position, just like mom, and relished the simplicity of the wind rushing around her face. Her heart filled with love, glad that her father sat next to her with a smile on his face.
Lindy thought it ironic that her parents, so loving, were separated by the cruelest of cruel in the form of cancer. They lived their lives unto themselves—without influence from society or familial expectations. They loved life, lived life, and gave freely of their goodwill.
Then the cancer shredded the picture, leaving Lindy, her father, and her siblings floating in neutral.
Ironic, because the adage only the good die young was so undeservedly true.
EIGHT
October 4, 1980
On the Road
Mariella stayed in a motel outside of Shreveport, Louisiana. She needed a shower and a real mattress to sleep on. The makeshift bed in the back of the van was getting old.
From her motel room, she called Barbara Grier at Naiad Press to inform her that she would be passing through.
Barbara was excited to see her and to discuss the new book proposal.
Marianna promised to share her work-in-progress, named, aptly, Flawed.
Naiad Press, based in Tallahassee, Florida, was founded by four women. When Barbara Grier first read the manuscript for A Woman from Brazil, in 1976, she shared it quickly with the other founders, and they all agreed to take Mariella on as a client.
Naiad spent the better part of a year editing, proofing, and shaping the book into a solid publication.
A reviewer out of Boston, who had gotten a complimentary copy of the book, read it in one sitting and went immediately to the New Words bookstore in Somerville, Massachusetts.
“You have to read this. Then carry it in your store. This will not disappoint. This will sell,” the reviewer said pointedly.
The fire that started in Somerville spread quickly to the West Coast. In certain bookstores from Provincetown to San Francisco, A Woman from Brazil was situated up front in the window, with more books on a separate table.
The powers-that-be at Naiad were beyond ecstatic. Their already successful roster of writers, and the success of Vasquez, made Naiad Press the frontrunner in the lesbian/feminist publishing field.
Mari was asked to do a book tour to meet and greet the women who had bought and read her book. Her contract stated that public appearances were a part of the deal, but when she got up in front of a crowd to read, her insides trembled. Because she couldn’t breathe, her voice took on a squeaky quality, and it took away the
impact of her words.
Barbara and the other founders of Naiad took her aside and coached her how to breathe and refocus to stay calm. It took some time, but eventually Mari was able to get through an appearance without throwing up either before or after and enjoy the reading.
She would think back to her college days, and how she knew she would write professionally, despite the public adoration. Her fans spent their money on her story. She was raised to pay forward kind gestures.
During her senior year at the University of New Mexico, she was invited to attend conference classes with established writers. Gloria Bretton-Tanner, a quirky but serious British author who published short stories, essays and four novels all after the age of fifty, was Mari’s mentor.
In her lovely thick accent, Gloria oft intoned to her students, “While grammar is key in the final aspects of writing, the only thing to truly catch hold of the reader is to write from the bones of your soul.”
Mariella kept that mantra in plain sight.
Write from the bones of your soul.
As she drove away from Shreveport, she finally felt good. The last day and a half had been fraught with an edgy anxiety; leaving her home, her parents back in Albuquerque—who were not pleased she was leaving New Mexico but understood she had to follow her path—and dear friends.
She was curious about The Pagoda Motel, and if the other artists in residence would be distracting.
But Lorna had assured her, vowing “quiet and remote.”
Lorna explained that Heatherton County was a sleepy hamlet where people “just go about their business.”
It sounded idyllic.
Maybe too idyllic?
Mari knew she was taking a big step by leaving her home and trying this new venture.
But it had been time to go.
And, as she drove, she felt a surge of excitement course through her veins.
A new journey, a new story.
Write from the bones of your soul.
NINE
October 9, 1980
Miami
DOREEN
Doreen turned the corner and drove into her uncle Vinnie’s estate driveway in the affluent neighborhood of Coconut Grove. There was a gate and code box at the end of the apron.
The trip had been long, with lots of traffic from Fort Lauderdale all the way down to Miami, the early snowbirds repopulating the beach communities.
Milton whistled softly under his breath when he saw the estate.
Doreen nodded, “I know. The place is kind of huge.”
Milton murmured, “Kind of? I think maybe very kind of.”
Doreen keyed in the code. The huge wrought iron gate creaked open, giving way to a four hundred-foot, brick-paved driveway to the house. A tall stone fence surrounded the property and visibility was completely cut off from the road.
A voice squawked over the speaker attached to the gate pad.
“Doe? That you?”
“It’s me, Vinnie. We’re here.”
“We?”
Doreen sighed, “Remember when I called you from the road, I told you I had Milton Catalvo with me? He’s one of the caretakers at the motel.”
Vinnie thought about it for a moment, “Oh yeah! Sure, I remember. He’s gonna help you with your gear. Of course. Yeah, come on in!”
Milton’s eyes were open wide. He shook his head and murmured, “Mama dios.”
The House of Vinnie, as Doreen liked to call it, stood three stories high. Brick and mortar, arched entryways, and lots of foliage around the windows, which gave way to lush palm trees and various blooms around the perimeter of the house.
“Well, here we are.”
Milton sat in his seat, turning his head this way and that, taking it all in. “This is all so very beautiful.”
Doreen stepped out of the truck and stretched her back. “Wait till you see the backyard. The whole place, it’s surrounded by stone walls. There’s a pool and a Jacuzzi out back, too. Hope you brought your swim trunks.”
Milton nodded, then made his way out of the truck. He was still mumbling when a man emerged from the front door and approached them.
“Doe! Let me see ya!”
Doreen smiled and hugged her uncle. He was thin, a bit pale, and his hair was mussed. She said into his bony shoulder, “How y’doin’, Vin?”
“I have my good days and my not so good days. Today is one of those that could go either way.”
Doreen turned to Milton. “Vin, this is Milton Catalvo.”
Vinnie stretched out his hand and said, “Well, nice to meet yas. Come on in. Any friend of Doe’s is a friend of mine. You two must be hungry and tired.”
“Yeah, long drive but it was nice comin’ down the coast.”
Milton nodded, “So very nice to meet you, Uncle Vinnie.”
Vinnie stopped for a moment then laughed, “Oh yeah! I can be your uncle, too.”
Doreen took Milton by the elbow. “Come on, let’s go inside where it’s a bit cooler, and there’s bound to be plenty of food and drink.”
The inside of the house was cavernous. Marble floors, steps down into a sunken living room, arched doors leading off the foyer, large indoor plants, lots of windows.
Doreen headed straight for the kitchen. “This way.”
Vinnie headed towards his home office. “I’ll join yas in a few minutes, Doe. Was on the phone when you arrived, gotta make a call back.”
Doreen nodded.
Betty Grable, the live-in “house manager” as Vinnie liked to call her, came running down the stairs.
She saw Doreen and called out, “There she is! My best girl!”
Doreen hugged her. “Ah gosh it’s good to see you. You look great, Betty. Just great. Hey, this here is Milton Catalvo, one of the caretakers at the motel where I live. Milton, this is Betty Grable, but you can call her Betty. We named her that ’cause she looks like Betty Grable, the actress; you know of her?” Doreen wiggled her eyebrows and nodded towards her bustline.
Betty blushed but stood tall. “I am very proud of these, you know.”
Milton’s eyebrows were buried in his hairline. “Oh, so very nice to meet you, Miss Betty.” His eyes fell to her bustline, and he tried hard, so hard to avert his stare.
This was not lost on Doreen. Betty was still attractive, but she was sharp and took no guff.
Betty said, “When y’gonna settle down and marry my son? He asks for you all the time. He’s not gettin’ any younger y’know.”
Doreen put her hands upon Betty’s shoulders, “You never give up, do you?”
Betty shrugged. “You still goin’ round with the ladies?”
Doreen shook her head and started off to the kitchen. “Come on, Milton. Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
Milton shook Betty’s hand and held on to it for a beat, then walked quickly to the kitchen with Doreen.
Later that evening, after a loud and slightly raucous dinner with the family, Doreen and Vinnie found themselves outside on the second-floor veranda, comfortably nestled in the deep-cushioned chairs, sipping after-dinner drinks, watching the sun lazily shift off towards the west, leaving an orange-blue sky accentuated by white drifting contrails from jet airplanes high above their heads.
Vinnie sipped his iced tea, and Doreen drank from a cold bottle of beer. He said, “You look good, Doe. Healthy. Not so skinny.”
“I get well fed.”
“So, tell me about this Loren gal, the one you mentioned at dinner.”
Doreen took a long pull off the beer. “Her name is Lorna, and she’s not a gal. She’s a woman, through and through.”
“So, tell me about this Lorna woman.”
Doreen heard calypso music coming from down the street. The evening air was cool and warm at the same time, the night blooms spraying their scents out into the air and making the atmosphere heady and sweet. She put her head back on the chair and closed her eyes.
“She’s a rock, Vin. A good, solid woman.”
Vinnie remarked, “I w
as kinda hopin’ the lady phase would peter out and you’d marry Betty’s son. He asks about you all the time. I think you broke his heart.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake I never had his heart. He’s a lovesick puppy. I’m a lesbian, Vin. Through and through. Plus, the fact he damn near passes out every time I come into the room and I’m sure he’s had his fair share of nighttime fantasies.”
Vinnie put his glass down. “So, tell me. What are you going to do at this motel, the very motel your grandfather owned?”
“It’s different now. The past is gone. Lorna has turned it into something solid, good, sincere, and real.” She turned to face Vinnie. “I love her, Vinnie. Fair and square. I’ve never been in love before, but I know I’m in love now.”
Vinnie nodded his head, still staring out at the darkening horizon. “So, tell me about your plans. I know you got something up your sleeve to come here with a U-Haul truck.”
Doreen finished her beer. “I’m going to build a little garage of my own.”
“Oh? Okay. You gonna do it on the motel property?”
“There’s a half an acre next door to the motel, and the county doesn’t want much for it, maybe five hundred. I asked if I could put a garage up—like a service station without the gas—and they told me it was zoned for residential. So, I explained it would be a garage. Like a residential garage. They finally told me I could build there, but it has to be built to town specs. A bunch of red tape.”
Vinnie crossed his legs, cleared his throat, “Ah, that’s nothin’. We could get around that. All we have to do is—”
“Vin, I’m going to do this myself. Milton and I talked about it on the way down here. He has cousins all over the place. We can get the cement poured and build the frame with help from his family.”
“You don’t want my help?”
Doreen turned to face him, “Just your blessing, really.”
Ladies of Pagodaville Page 5
