The Peach and the Poppy

by Caesar J. M. Kauftheil

  Sucking it up was worthwhile, Poppy found, for the hour of television Lindsay was allotted afterward, which they spent sitting together on the stiff couch cushions. Having been raised without, Poppy found televisions shows overwhelming and vapid, but stealing glances at her friend's rapt focus on the program, the curve of her lips when she smiled and her soft laugh, which Poppy reciprocated to give the illusion that she was watching the screen, was more entertaining than Poppy's favorite chapter book series about a girl who lived on a horse ranch.

  Afterward, Lindsay showed Poppy her bedroom, which felt uncomfortable in a way Poppy could not at first put her finger on. Upon successive visits, she began to acknowledge the bed that was always neatly made, the crucifix above the door, the careful arrangement of every item within the room, and how whenever a doll or stuffed animal was picked up, it was placed back in the same place, in the same position. It wasn't a preteen girl's room—it was an adult's concept of what a child's room should look like. The playthings seemed to be articles of décor more than anything else, along with the framed certificates of participation in soccer leagues, gymnastics and ballet classes, a kitschy diploma from something called "Princess Camp," and a professionally-taken photograph on her nightstand of Lindsay with her parents all wearing matching navy blue sweaters.

  It was funny, almost, to compare that timid middle school fledgling of a girl to what she had become by the time she had reached her senior year of high school… but that was later. The Lindsay that had been her Lindsay was innocent, a timid fawn of a girl, and Poppy's infatuation had been innocent as well. Innocent, but still so heavy. The Lindsay for whom she would, at least once a week as their friendship blossomed, undertake the absurd habit of delaying relaxation to do homework immediately after school. The Lindsay for whom she signed up for band class the following school year, picking up the clarinet to match, so they could sit together in the woodwind section and Poppy had an excuse to spend an extra half-hour during their afterschool get-togethers to practice. These were usually at Lindsay's home, though on rare occasion at Poppy's, likely limited by Lindsay's mother's unspoken disdain for the general lack of structure in the much more liberal household—and, also likely, Poppy's father's ponytail. The Lindsay to whom an exclusive permission was given to braid Poppy's hair; and she would even leave the god-awful plaits in until the apple of her eye was out of sight. All of this, Poppy did with a belief in some principle of delayed gratification, that the wait would make the satisfaction—whatever that satisfaction was supposed to be—all the sweeter.

  Irreligious Experiences

  It took nearly a year for Lindsay to warm her mother up to the prospect of a sleepover. Poppy wasn't sure, but she felt that a strong leg of her friend's argument had been bringing Poppy to church. Poppy had grown up in an ardently secular household; her parents believed religion should be an entirely uninfluenced individual decision, and even now at the age of twenty-five, she still didn't know what her parents' religious beliefs, if any, were. So it was arranged that she would spend the night on a Saturday, and, by her own enthusiastic suggestion to ingratiate with another aspect of Lindsay's life, attend church with her family on Sunday morning. Who knows? she had thought at the time; maybe she would have one of those religious experiences people always talked about.

  She, of course, did not. Her parents had sat her down to discuss how the Catholic Mass she was about to attend was only one perspective on the great questions, and that she should keep her mind open. They then offered to take her to any other religious service she wished to experience, thinking that she must have reached a point in her life of curiosity and yearning to explore her spirituality. There was a curiosity and yearning, but it wasn't for theology; she had already created a goddess in her own mind.

  Rather than ecclesiastical instruction, the sleepover had been a testament to the all-consuming influence religion had on a neurotic woman. Life in Lindsay's household, where cleanliness was next to godliness—though it wasn't clear which was the lesser: the Immaculate Conception or the immaculate home—there was a constant refocusing onto Catholicism. There were portraits of praying Jesuses and crucified Christs throughout the house that Poppy had never noticed and a nativity scene displayed in the hutch alongside the fancy plates. Dinner started with holding hands, Lindsay to one side and her mother to the other while the father said grace—of which Poppy hadn't heard a word, because she was holding hands with Lindsay—and it was followed by a meal placed before her like the bricks of a food pyramid, striving to be "healthy," in contrast to her own families holistic approach to sustenance that was "healthful." Later that evening, Poppy discovered that the Harry Potter books—at that time in the height of their popularity, and which Poppy had read several times apiece—were banned from the house for fear that the series might corrupt poor, naïve, innocent Lindsay's mind with the evil indoctrination of witchcraft.

  The idea of a book, a simple work of fiction, manipulating someone to such a degree seemed ridiculous, though Poppy had kept the thought to herself. Then again, people who are willing to base their lives around some book written two-thousand years ago…

  Poppy bit her tongue and chided herself. Christians weren't bad people, she had just encountered some of the uglier sides of the followership, and it left a bad taste in her mouth. She shouldn't be sending out such negative energies. She was still in the cathedral, after all, realizing she had spent the past five minutes with what must have seemed to passersby like an engrossment in the statue before her that she was just now seeing. But her mind quickly fell back into that night, more than a decade prior.

  Dinner had been promptly at six, and bedtime was a strict nine o'clock. It wasn't the bedtime she was used to at other sleepovers she had attended, where the term usually meant to keep the gossiping and giggling down, because the parents wanted to sleep. This was a "lights out, go to sleep" kind of bedtime. Normally, this would have been horrible news to Poppy, who was used to much more leeway in regards to her sleeping schedule, even during weeknights, but the discomfort and anguish were easy to swallow when combined with the sweetness of what bedtime meant.

  It meant, in such a sweet, unadulterated way, time in bed with Lindsay. The gratification the whole night so far had been delaying.

  There was nothing sexual, or even romantic in their lying together. There was none of the experimentation or kissing practice, or any of the proto-homosexual behavior that Poppy later in life heard that some girls engaged in at slumber parties or summer camp. Even if that willingness had been there from Lindsay, and Poppy had realized that was what she wanted and hadn't been too timid to embrace it, the door was left ajar, leaking in light from the hallway. Not only that, her mother poked her head in the room every twenty minutes to make sure the girls were asleep. Maybe she could sense in Poppy the lesbian that was just awakening in small increments in her daughter's bed, who intended to bewitch the naïve girl and enlist her into the army of godless homosexuals—a situation she could turn around by reforming the heathen-to-be, leading her away from the path of sin with that beacon light of Christ. Yes, this was the sole motivation of the Lindsay's mother allowing her daughter to have a friend spend the night.

  Poppy shook her head and smiled to herself. She loved to dramatize things. The woman was just an obsessively over-attentive mother—though exposing Poppy to her first Sunday Mass did seem to have been a key element in negotiating the sleepover.

  There was, however, one earth-shattering moment in the bedroom, as the two pajama-clad girls shared a bed and a blanket. Shortly after her mother had turned the light off on the girls, and her footsteps carried her away down the hall, Lindsay turned to Poppy, and whispered, "This is my first sleepover." Poppy pretended to be surprised. "It was so fun," she continued, and Poppy bit her tongue. "Thank you," she said, finally, and then…

  Poppy was fortunate for the darkness of the room to hide the flush of red across her face. Even a dozen years later, her heart skipped a beat when she relived that momen
t, the tight, lingering embrace as Lindsay wrapped her arms around Poppy in an affectionate hug… and then turned around, and fell fast asleep. Lindsay's mother silently checked in twice before Poppy's heart stopped pounding in her ears, her skin replaying for her the sensation of the squeeze over and over.

  The next morning, Lindsay, who already dressed on the conservative side, donned a blouse, knee-length skirt and shiny black shoes, the entire ensemble stiffer and more austere than usual. Due to her mother's insistence, Lindsay loaned Poppy some clothes, as it never occurred to Poppy that jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt were far from what one might call her "Sunday best." Having always been a shorter girl, during her middle school years especially, the dress shirt she was given had to be tucked into the skirt, making her look rather sloppy compared to her friend. She followed Lindsay's lead and brushed her hair behind her ears, though her wavy, frizzy hair could never match the aesthetic perfection of Lindsay's locks which more often than not were worn in curls, but today her sleek black hair cascaded down on either side from a centered part and flowed in rivulets down her shoulders to where her elbows rested at her sides.

  As they entered the church, Poppy again copied Lindsay in tapping her forehead, chest and shoulders with holy water, sat in the uncomfortable wooden pew, and waited for… well, she wasn't sure. Some songs were sung by the tuneless mass of churchgoers, and then the priest began talking… a monotone rambling that Poppy at first thought was just the preamble, but realized, as it dragged on, that it was the whole thing. There was some standing and sitting, opening bibles to specific pages, prayers and amens sprinkled in, but the sheer tedium of the service made Poppy fidgety.

  Not quite sure about half of what the man in black was talking about, her mind began to wander. She noticed how Lindsay's shoes made it look like she was wearing polished beetles on her feet. She absentmindedly gazed at the stained glass windows. She glanced at Lindsay's mother, whose eyes were blank and her tight lips drawn in a slight smile, almost as if she had been put in a trance by the man's words. The woman's spine seemed to grow straighter and her chin tilted several degrees upward as the topic of heaven came up, the ultimate reward for the devout.

  If it had existed in Poppy's vocabulary at the time, the word 'pious' would have entered her mind. It wasn't the savior in which she found salvation—it was the devotion itself. It was the validation of her structured and somber lifestyle. It was the idea that she was a good person, a superior person, because of her staunch austerity. And that, she realized, was the appeal of religion—at least for people like Lindsay's mother; it was the fetishization of delayed gratification for people who were unable to allow themselves the pleasure of a hedonistic lifestyle.

  Poppy's eyes had eventually wandered to the confessionals. She was aware of their purpose from books and films. She fantasized about sneaking away from the sermon with Lindsay and hiding away in the privacy of one of those unoccupied booths, to be alone with her in that cozy, close, private space… and Poppy could confess her feelings to her. She wasn't sure what those feelings were, but she wanted to tell Lindsay the things she could articulate.

  She liked spending time with Lindsay. She liked looking at her because she was pretty—no, beautiful. Because she wanted something more than friendship, though she had no clue exactly what that something was. She wanted to hug Lindsay again, wanted to do it all the time. She didn't know what any of it had meant, but she felt that Lindsay was her church.

  Sitting in the pew, she found her heart racing again and her cheeks starting to flush. She glanced around, glad no one was paying attention to her. She had felt like an outsider in that place of worship from the start, but then even more so.

  And now, again, standing in the Parisian cathedral, she felt like an outsider. She understood why she couldn't enjoy herself in what she thought was just another tourist destination. It reminded her of the discomforting rigidness of Lindsay's mother, but more so of her bittersweet first love. Church, to her, held the connotation of a delayed gratification—without the gratification.

  Where Devious Paths Lead

  Though their friendship lasted through middle school, with Poppy's feelings maturing, eternally unspoken, Poppy had to survive off the occasional sustenance of a hug from her best friend. The concept of "lesbian" didn't exist in her mind until she and Lindsay were accused of being such in the seventh grade by a classmate, with the intent of a middle-schooler to harass and scorn. The two girls, by that point having a reputation on campus as being inseparable, looked at each other with lost expressions. Their accuser then had to explain to them his insult, resulting in an expression of horror and disgust on Lindsay's face followed by a firm denial, which Poppy imitated, though her mind was buzzing.

  Lindsay then stated, as proof, that she liked a boy from their class—Andrew, a popular, edgy (well, edgy for a seventh-grader) kid who Poppy immediately gained a distinct distaste for. After the lesbian witch hunter walked away, and Poppy was still wheeling from this new, life-changing piece of information, Lindsay talked about what she knew of homosexuality. "My mom says…" started every statement: that it was a sin, that it was unnatural, that those people were influenced by the devil and they would go to hell. Poppy just nodded, eyes glazed over.

  Junior high being what it was, the twisted and engorged rumor quickly reached Andrew that Lindsay was wild about him. Before the week was over, Andrew seized his opportunity, approaching Lindsay after the bell for lunch rang and before Poppy had a chance to join her side, and asked her to be his girlfriend. Red-faced, Lindsay admitted that her mother didn't want her to date until she was eighteen. Andrew shrugged and stalked away, hiding his dejection, and Poppy's heart filled with hope. She wanted to kiss Lindsay and bit her lip as she swallowed the desire.

  She had, by this point, started to toy with the idea that "lesbian" might be the word for what she was, but she still knew that was not something to make public, all that devil and sin stuff aside. The rest of the seventh grade was a series of silent struggles—Andrew's presence did not entirely go away, as he occasionally found reasons to place himself near Lindsay, slyly trying to get closer in ways not overt but still obvious to Poppy that he was trying to persuade Lindsay to rethink her mother's orders. A bitterness filled Poppy every time he was near, and she felt a sickness whenever she noticed Lindsay's eyes traveling in his direction, or when he said something that made her laugh; it was a jealousy she had never experienced before. Her fantasies began evolving, moving past intimate moments in a church confessional to the want to be Lindsay's object of desire, to be the one that made her laugh and blush, to hold her hand and kiss her.

  Lindsay's demeanor started to change after the following summer, and they entered the eighth grade. She started acting mysterious, and there were times during lunch periods when she disappeared, leaving Poppy to eat alone, returning when the bell for class rang, carrying an air of discretion about her. Two weeks into the term, Poppy confronted her, and Lindsay told her, privately, that she and Andrew were dating, but it was a secret. Her mother could not find out, and she urged Poppy to promise not to tell anyone. Poppy, feeling for the first time the overwhelming onus of being the girl's best friend, was forced to comply. Disappointment was a feeling she now added to the vault of emotions she could only release when she was alone in her bed, and allowed herself the tears she fought back daily at school.

  By the time they reached high school, Lindsay and Andrew were an item, and her friendship with Poppy had withered. The relationship had strained the friendship, and Lindsay had begun a transformation. The school girl innocence was wearing away; Andrew's presence was a crack in the sheltering cocoon her mother had raised her in, and the influences of the real world that leaked through that rift altered her. Though they broke up a few months later, the damage was done. Puberty developed a very pretty girl into an exceptionally attractive, hormone-stirring teenager, and Lindsay, who had grown up living a life of delay, was realizing the gratification she could bring herself.

>   Poppy watched as the attention from upperclassmen unleashed a rebellious freedom in Lindsay. She began wearing heavy mascara and tight clothing to school and the boys she dated became gradually more dangerous. Poppy heard through gossip that Lindsay went wild at parties, imbibing liquor, cigarettes and weed. For all the exploration she did into heathenism, the questioning her of sexuality, unfortunately, never arose. As Lindsay became a social butterfly, Poppy withdrew, growing more self-conscious about her romantic preference. By the time they were in their senior year, Poppy had come to terms with her homosexuality (her parents had been enthusiastically accepting when she came out), Lindsay was a full-blown floozy, and the two, previously best friends, were hardly more than strangers. She remembered the passing look Lindsay's mother—who must have heard from Lindsay or another mother about Poppy's attraction to women—had given her when they made eye contact at graduation, returning Poppy's friendly smile with a wry grimace.

  The frustrations over the way things had gone were long since passed, but she supposed she still clung to certain resentments—and it manifested in her discomfort in religious settings. Church, where people waited for things that would never come, thought Poppy. Lindsay, who Poppy had made her church and worshipped like a goddess, for whom she had waited, and ended up with nothing. She thought of the twelve-year-old girl whom she wanted to take into a church confessional to express a budding infatuation. She thought of the eighteen-year-old version of that girl, as she remembered her after having no contact for the past seven years… and the things she would express to that girl if she had the opportunity to get her alone in the privacy of a confessional…

  Poppy bit her lip and grinned, accidentally revisiting the erotic fantasies of her teenage years. Realizing what she was doing to herself, she blushed and made her way for the exit. She definitely was not made to spend too much time in religious establishments—she couldn't stop her mind from going to devious places.