by Cathy Lamb
“It would be disgusting!” Lorna said, her face flushed. “All the people would be unsanitary! Disgusting! Living in raw sewage, it’s a disgrace!”
Lorna said it as if it were the fault of Gitanjali and her village.
“Yes, it is a disgrace,” I said, “when you have a group of people at the top who will live in extreme wealth and lavish comfort and yet you have hundreds of millions of people who are relieving themselves by a river that is the same river people drink from because the government cannot or will not provide for them the basic infrastructure and support, like water, sewage lines, toilets, heat, electricity, and plumbing that they should be entitled to.”
“Revolting,” Lorna said. “I could never live there. I would refuse. I would leave. I would work my way up.”
“You can’t refuse, you silly chicken,” Olive said, waving her wine. She spilled some on the demented raccoon. “You’re born where you’re born. It’s not a matter of chance.”
“If the people living with Gitanjali could have refused to live there, they would have,” Rowena scolded. “You don’t get to tell God where you want to land on this planet. If I could, I would land on my ex-husband’s slut’s fake boobs and pop them.”
“They could have cleaned around and about. We’ve had toilets since 1890. Why don’t they have them in 1990? They could have made loo lines and bought loos,” Lorna said, staring hard at Gitanjali. “There’s no excuse to be living in filth.”
I sat straight up. Ignorance bothers me, especially when it comes out sanctimoniously. “Lorna, I don’t think you’re understanding the micro- and macroeconomics here, the governmental ineptitude that caused and maintains this structure, the debilitating societal dynamics, the religious beliefs and the stranglehold those beliefs have on that environment, or the lack of capitalistic, democratic forces and general fairness that we’re discussing in this conversation.”
“I understand the economics and the . . . the . . .” Lorna was flustered. “Everything else you . . . you babbled on about! It’s a very primitive way to live. We Scots would never live like that.”
“I am having a difficult time understanding why you are not understanding this,” I said. Her brain was not functioning in a progressive, analytical manner.
“I understand everything, Charlotte—” Her face was flushed, her cheeks trembling with rage.
“You don’t understand poverty,” Kenna said. “As a doctor, I see it all the time.”
“Or how rich people keep people in poverty,” Olive said. “You’re giving me a headache, Lorna, and I still have to feed the pigs tonight.”
“Perhaps I could give you a lobotomy,” Kenna muttered. “Where is my surgical bag?”
“I think it is ignorance that will kill the world,” Olive said.
“Or stupid people,” Rowena said.
“Or people who don’t have lobotomies,” Kenna said, “but should.”
Gitanjali said, “I understand, Lorna.” But I saw those dark eyes. Hurt. She was hurt. Again.
“I don’t like the way you’re treating Gitanjali, Lorna,” I said. “Dismissive. Rude.”
“Please,” Gitanjali said. “Peace. I am not on the off.”
“The off?” Kenna said.
“What that word? Off and the ten?”
“Offended,” Olive said. “Why so mean-spirited and domineering, Lorna? You won’t keep friends that way. I had a pig once who was aggressive. None of the other pigs liked her. I killed her and she was delicious, but still. Her life was spent making other pigs upset and irritated.”
“You’re a grouch, Lorna. You need tequila,” Rowena said. “I have one whenever I think of The Slut getting near my kids. Those two, happy all the time, as if they haven’t destroyed our family’s life. Wait until the lust wear off.”
“You do need tequila,” Olive said. “It’ll loosen up that body and rigid mind-set of yours.”
“I do not. And I don’t drink tequila.” Lorna glowered.
I noticed she rarely glanced at Gitanjali, one more way to put Gitanjali in her “place.” If you don’t acknowledge their presence, you are telling them they’re not important. Gitanjali had the audacity to come from a foreign country, with a foreign religion, and she had dark skin. That was too much for Lorna.
“Tequila is for a class that is beneath myself,” Lorna said, lips tight.
“Maybe you should go and live in India,” Kenna said. “You can experience class there in a shanty.”
“I dare you to have tequila,” I said. “Are you scared to try a shot of tequila?”
Lorna huffed and puffed, sitting straight up and glaring at me. “I am not afraid of anything, you . . . you . . . skinny pole toothpick nerdy American.”
That’s what started it all.
Skinny pole toothpick nerdy American. She had what was coming to her.
One tequila shot, then another, some in tea, some not, and Gitanjali’s India flat became a noisy, laughing, Scottish-song-singing gang of ladies having a grand ole time. Even Lorna wasn’t such a witch. I kept filling her glass.
About eleven, for some inexplicable reason, we decided that we should all go on a bike ride in the village in our panties and bras. It was a hot night. It was a drunk night.
“It’s dark out,” Rowena said, tottering. “No one will see us. Be quiet, all of you. Shhhh! But if I do see The Slluuuut, I’m going to run her and her fake booby bubbles down.”
Lorna swayed. “I’m not going. I am not the type of woman who bikes with bra and panties on at all. Or drinks tequila. It’s a class problem. Gas problem. Gassy problem.” She farted. “It’s a gas problem.” She wagged her finger. “I told you.” She farted again and waved her hand behind her butt.
“We know,” Kenna said. “You’re a chicken.”
“I am not a chicken lickin’! I eat geraniums.” Lorna mimed eating geraniums. “Red ones. Always the same stupid-woopid color.”
Lorna’s daughter, Malvina, laughed so hard she doubled over in front of her mother. She farted, too. They had eaten a lot of Gitanjali’s “exotic” food. “Fart!” she declared. “On my mum!”
“Like mother, like daughter,” I said. “Both farters. It is not genetic. Why is the room spinning, Gitanjali? You shouldn’t allow your house to spin. It’s dizzying and I am dizzy.”
“I eat my pets,” Olive said, then burst into tears. She’s a sappy drunk and wiped her eyes with the demented raccoon scarf. “I still miss Peek-A-Boo pig, but the honey mustard on the side was delicious. I would not eat my horses, though, or a porcupine.”
Then, surprisingly, Malvina spoke again. “I’m going to ride a porcupine poking bike in my panties. Porky pig panties.”
“I can’t bike in my lingerie, I’m a doctor,” Kenna said. “What if a patient saw my buttocks? Could never do that. But I have a solution kolution! I will wear a towel around my hair and dark glasses. No one will know like a show. I’ll be an enema.” She shook her head, befuddled, then pointed a finger in the air. “Not an enema. That makes you poopy. I am an M and M. No!” She shouted. “I eat M&M’s. I am an . . .” She paused for effect. “Enigma! A mystery! Like Father Cruickshank who disappeared.”
“Mystery!” Lorna shouted. “Gone. Poof! He’s gooooone.”
“Disappeared!” Malvina announced, then she rocked back and forth laughing. “Never to be found in the hills of Scotland.”
Lorna farted, fanned her butt, and laughed again, a cackling sound.
Rowena said, “I am concerned that my V V will get squashed. Gitanjali, do you have a spice that will cure a squashed V V vagina?”
Gitanjali said, with such serenity, “I’m sure there a spice for the V V, the open flower.”
“And now,” I stood up. “I’m going to make an announcement. First, this house shouldn’t spin. Second, I wear high-rise underwear.” I put my drink down. “Look here.” I pulled the hem of my skirt up to my head and yelled through the fabric. “It’s like wearing a cotton chastity belt.”
E
veryone cheered.
I dropped my skirt as everyone stripped and proudly displayed their panties.
“Olive Oliver wears pig panties.” Olive Oliver pulled down her pants. She was right! Pink panties. A white pig on the front. She oinked at us.
“Look at these motherfuckers,” Lorna said, hardly able to stand. She unzipped her skirt. “Mine beats yours. I’ve got a horse’s arse.”
“You do,” I said.
Malvina kept laughing.
I noticed that Rowena had sexy red panties, when she held up her summer dress. “You have lacy tidbit panties,” I told her.
“I am going to put my panties on my head!” Rowena announced, and she did, pulling the lacy panties off and over her face like a mask. She peeked out through one leg hole. “I’m Panty Superwoman!”
Kenna grabbed one of Gitanjali’s scarves to hide her hair and most of her face after she disrobed. White cotton underthings. “I slice people open, I dice people open, I slice and dice, once, twice, thrice!”
Gitanjali took off her embroidered elephant shirt and pants. Blue panties, surprisingly flirty. “I love silk,” she slurred. “So soft.” Her bra matched. “Spices. Silk. I like the longer ree.”
“The what?” Olive said.
“Longer ree,” Gitanjali said. “Pretty.”
“Lingerie,” I said helpfully. “I am helpful.”
Lorna shouted again, “Too big.” She spanked herself, both hands. “Too motherfucking damn big.”
“An important deduction,” I said. “Analysis. Hypothesis. Laboratory results, here come my somersaults.” I somersaulted, buttocks in the air. They clapped.
“I hate The Slut,” Rowena said through her red superwoman mask. “I run her over like a dead possum. I look for her! I seek revenge!”
We panty-and-bra-wearing inebriated rebels borrowed Gitanjali’s bikes, and we borrowed the neighbors’ bikes without asking.
Lorna teetered and tottered on her motherfucking bottom on Gitanjali’s bike.
Olive rode behind her, standing on the pedals, singing with Lorna about a woman in love with a Greek God who could “woo woo woo” her and “thump thump thump.” I laughed so hard I had to bend over a bush and pee. Peeing outside, I noted to Rowena, was in line with our previous conversation about loos.
Rowena swayed. “No one wants to smell like urine.”
“I peed, I peed,” I said. “But not on my knee and not on a tree, and not during the time of the bees. I peed, I peed.”
We gripped our handlebars and pushed off through the silent village, past the remnants of the cathedral and the castle that had an archbishop with twenty illegitimate children, and two stone churches.
Lorna sang a love song. She had a bellowing, shrieking voice. We circled the square, twice, singing, cackling, my hair loose from its bun and flying behind me.
“I hopie I see the chiefie tonight,” Gitanjali said. “I say hi, man. I have too much spice liquid again at Gabbling Gooses tonight. Yes.”
“See me, no hands!” I held my hands up, right by the empty lot where the Zimmerman Factory used to be. “I ride a bike, I ride a trike, I ride a kite, I try not to fight!”
Everyone rode with no hands with varying success.
“It’s not easy to ride a bike drunk,” Olive said, in all seriousness. “This is tricky dicky. I need a goat with me.”
“I am a doctor and I’m half-naked here, I’m half-naked there, I’m half-naked everywhere,” Kenna sang, high soprano. We joined her, in rounds, at my direction, once again.
Malvina crashed, then stood up and declared, “I didn’t hurt my bottom. Bye and bye, geese can fly, no one worry. I’m in no hurry.”
“I am going looking for The Slut,” Rowena said. “Bash boobies. Smash Cooties. Toodle Tooties.”
“No, no.” I rode along beside her as she made a quick right. “Let’s not.”
“When I see The Arse I’m going to pull his balls off, like this.” She pulled the air, both fists, then crashed.
Olive started pig snorting. Repeatedly.
Gitanjali tried to ride backward. She was fairly good at it. “Never lookie at the behind in life. Always lookie at the front chest.”
We led Lorna home first because she was insisting on going shopping for red geraniums. She actually stopped by someone’s house and ripped red geraniums from her flower box and put them behind her ears. She knocked on her own door and shouted, “Open up, Husband. You and your flaxen dick. You and your shriveled balls. You and your flatulence and drunkenness. Open up straight away now!”
She kicked at the door and it opened. She farted again and fanned her butt. “Fart,” she said.
Malvina spread her arms out and spun. “I am a panty tequila goddess.” She farted, too. “Like my farting mum.”
Later that night, tucked up in bed, the moon a white ball in the sky, I laughed, quiet as I could.
I had ridden a bike in my dull and fraying bra and underwear in my old Scottish village. I had ridden with no hands.
I had a vision of myself, from the rear, my butt eating the seat, my hair flying behind me like a messy horse’s mane, my glasses firmly attached to my face, tilting slightly to the left, as I teetered down the cobblestone streets with other women who also wore only bras and panties.
It was such a funny vision I started to laugh again.
I was surprised that I was in a garden group. I was surprised I went bike riding drunk in my panties. I was surprised I led friendly people in the village in song. Was I becoming a friend? A girlfriend? Could I do the girlfriend thing?
Charlotte Mackintosh, recluse.
Charlotte Mackintosh, girlfriend?
Charlotte,
I want to apologize for, once again, intruding on your activities last night. I received a call from two elderly people, Mr. and Mrs. Ryeson, who heard screaming near their home. They thought it was ghosts rising from the dead. They are both superstitious. Now I realize that was not screaming, but singing.
I applaud all of you for your athleticism. Riding bikes is healthy for the mind and body. I am relieved that Malvina was not hurt when she ran into the light pole and that Kenna suffered no injuries when she hit Stanley I’s truck. She is a gifted surgeon.
Several ladies who approached me this morning at Sandra’s Scones and Treats Bakery thought that this was a new tradition in town, a late-night panty and bra bike ride, and have asked if it is open to all women. I told them to contact you. A few seemed rather hurt not to be invited, so you may have to mend some feelings.
The daffodils have all popped up. Looking forward to the gladiolas now.
Yours sincerely,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of your parents, may your father have God’s ears as he shares with him the legends of Scotland.
Dear Chief Constable Harris,
Thank you for your letter.
Gitanjali asked me if she should make you chicken makhani to apologize for the unintended ruckus we caused. I assured her that was a fine idea. She is a superb chef and I’m sure you will enjoy the meal and the company.
Olive told me to tell you that she will kill Harvey for Gitanjali’s dish, as he is plump and ready to be eaten. I hope that this will serve as an appropriate expression of our embarrassment for the noise two nights ago.
Yours,
Charlotte Mackintosh
Dear Charlotte,
Words cannot express my gratitude. Gitanjali has already come to me and asked when it would be most convenient for her to make me dinner at her home. I told her any night would be most convenient for me.
I am going to bring flowers. Do you think Gitanjali would like tulips? A mixed bouquet? Something more exciting? I was thinking of a box of chocolates, too. Do you think she would prefer dark or light chocolate? I was also going to bring her a fine china teacup and saucer I saw the other day. It’s hand-painted, delicate, like Gitanjali, and she has mentioned that she likes tea.
Do tell me, please. Is this quite too much
?
Yours sincerely,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of yours parents, may your father’s bagpipes reach God’s ears.
“Care for a walk along the beach? It’s raining, but not much. We can catch part of the sunset.”
“Yes. I’d love to.” I smiled up at Toran and pushed my glasses back up my nose. My finger caught on the tape. I dropped them. Toran picked them up. “Let me change my shoes.” I took off my sturdy brown shoes and put on tennis shoes. They seemed clunky with my brown skirt, but that didn’t matter. Comfort matters. I pulled on my thick pink wool socks and a blue rain slicker that I’d found at a secondhand shop. There was a parakeet on the pocket. It fell to mid thigh. I added a red and yellow striped rain hat. “Ready.”
“Shall we, then?”
We started off down the street, then cut over for the path to the ocean, the rain a light sprinkle. “I love the rain,” I said. “I love it in Washington, too. I find it soothing.”
“Ah, me too. Love it for my farm. Have to have the rain.”
We then launched into a discussion about rain, the weather, and the importance of water for people, food, and animals, but also how a lack of water could cause mass migration and world wars in the future.
It was a stimulating conversation.
We sat down on the sand, the sun setting behind us, turning the sky pink and yellow. The ocean was a dark blue gray with a white, frothy trim. Calm.
“It’s nice to have someone to talk to,” I said out loud. “I mean. That sounded pathetic. It’s not that I don’t have anyone to talk to. . . .” I paused. “I do talk to my mother, because she calls constantly and tells me I need to move off the island and quit being a hermit, and I do have a few neighbors I talk to, but not like . . . uh . . . not like . . .”
“Like this?”
“Like this. Yes.” He always understood what I was trying to say.
“It’s the same for me, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “Exactly the same.”
“I have writer’s block.” I ran sand through my fingers. It had stopped raining. “I’m surprised I blurted that out.”
