When We Were Outlaws

by Jeanne Cordova

  “We should get dressed and go home,” she said. “I can’t believe we did this in a car.”

  “Not yet,” I protested, still feeling weak. “I can’t stand right now, my legs are too wobbly.”

  “Just a few moments then.” Rachel relaxed and I sank back into her and drifted.

  A chill rippled down my half-naked back. Lionheart was shrouded in twilight. Still lying on Rachel, bonded together by sweat and orgasm, I realized my legs were bent at the knees; my feet were poking out of the driver’s window. I brushed her lips and woke her.

  Kissing my fingers, she whispered, “It’s late, we should go.”

  I lifted the jade heart from the hollow in her neck. “This is my way of saying that when I’m not with you, I’m practicing delayed gratification.”

  “Excuse me?” Rachel laughed her deep throaty laugh. “I didn’t hear anything delayed about your gratification.”

  “I meant emotionally,” I said. “When I’m not with you, I’m still with you.”

  Rachel studied me; her words came cautiously, “Is this your way of committing? Are you saying you want to be monogamous with me?”

  I boomed out playfully, “I’m saying, I shall have no other women before ye!”

  Rachel tensed. “What about BeJo? You haven’t even talked to her yet.”

  “I meant…no other women besides BeJo. We never make love anymore, so yes monogamously.”

  Rachel began to squirm as though she wanted me to get off her. “That’s not good enough anymore, Jeanne,” she said, enunciating each word slowly.

  I lifted myself off her. “All right,” I blurted. “I’ll talk to BeJo tonight.”

  Rachel was sitting up now too, arranging her skirt and blouse. She stopped abruptly. “What do you mean, tonight?”

  I sat up too, surprised by her question. “It’s BeJo’s birthday. I’m taking her to a movie and a surprise party tonight.”

  Rachel stopped dressing. “It’s Monday night. Our night together.”

  “Shit!” I let out a whistle between my teeth. In the excitement of seeing Morris this morning, I hadn’t made the connection that tonight was indeed BeJo’s birthday and it was falling on a Monday night! That meant I should have exchanged Monday for Tuesday this week with Rachel. But I hadn’t. Denial and slippage had me cornered now.

  I looked at Rachel. She’d stopped moving altogether. “Are you telling me you seduced me in your car knowing you had to leave?”

  I tucked my sweat-wrinkled shirt into my jeans, realizing I didn’t have time to go home and change. “Of course not,” I defended, “I forgot what day it was until I saw it was dark.” I was moving quickly now, panicked by having glanced at my Timex. I was always late to meet BeJo, but never on her birthday.

  I couldn’t look at Rachel. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I can switch tonight for tomorrow night and be with you tomorrow.” I opened my driver’s door, got out and scurried around to Rachel’s door. “Come on,” I opened the passenger door. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  But Rachel sat still, looking straight ahead. “You’ll walk me to my car?” she repeated, speaking to my windshield, her voice oddly icy.

  I leaned forward offering to help her out. Then I saw her face, a moment ago radiant with joy, now vacant. Its usual pink color drained, her jaw set tight as if she was in physical pain—this was a look I’d never seen.

  She turned to stare at me, waving an arm across the front seat. “So what’s this called?” she asked her voice strident, “Fuck ‘em and dump em? You forgot you were going to leave me until after you practically raped me in the front seat of your car.”

  Stunned by her words, I looked around the parking lot hoping we were alone. I knelt down beside her and whispered, “How can you use the word rape? WE were making love! You took my clothes off too. I wouldn’t leave if this were not a big occasion—”

  “And what kind of occasion was this?” she screamed, jumping out of the car and knocking me on my ass. “A meaningless fuck? You’re not interested in spending weekends with me. You’re never going to break your arrangement with BeJo!”

  I scrambled to my feet and reached for her. “Of course I am! I’m sorry my timing sucks—”

  “Get out of my way!” Rachel stepped away from me. She ripped the jade heart off her neck and threw it at me. “And you can keep your damn heart. You have no idea what a normal relationship looks like. You make me feel like a whore!”

  Rachel began running barefoot across the asphalt toward her own car. I stood, momentarily paralyzed, knowing I should go after her, yet knowing she wouldn’t listen if I did. I could hear myself making up an excuse on the phone to BeJo about why I was blowing off her birthday. I couldn’t do that to BeJo, not after the years she’d been through with me. And yet, I ran after Rachel.

  “Rachel!” I screamed, “Wait, don’t go like this,” I swerved, breaking my run to avoid colliding with a homeless man pushing a shopping cart, staring at me through his matted dreadlocks.

  By the time I reached Rachel’s green sedan, she’d locked the doors, gunned the ignition, and thrown the car into reverse. I heard the transmission pop and I quickly jumped out of her way.

  Chapter 24

  The Cuckoo’s Nest

  [Los Angeles]

  Mid-August, 1975

  It was cool in the darkened movie theater, and it took me a while to distinguish BeJo’s silhouette from the crowd. I crept wordlessly into the empty seat next to her.

  She bent toward me and whispered, “I was afraid you were going to blow off my birthday.”

  “No way! I was—”

  “Tell me later,” BeJo cut me off and turned back to the film.

  I couldn’t tell if she was angry with me. Not even her mother’s funeral could interrupt BeJo from a movie. To the farm girl from Iowa, Hollywood’s world of film was comprehensively compelling.

  I slumped deeper into my chair. BeJo and I had recently settled into a new, slightly modified non-monogamous routine. She was now seeing Pody on Monday and Friday nights when I was with Rachel, but we still rigidly observed one of the cardinal rules of non-monogamy: Don’t ask for details. I closed my eyes and stretched my legs. My nerves were shot and I was exhausted. Leaning toward BeJo, I pressed my shoulder into hers seeking to recapture the sense of equilibrium I often felt when I was with her. In BeJo’s company, I was unconditionally okay. So different than with Rachel, where I often felt like I was struggling to stand on quaking ground.

  I dug deep into my jeans pocket and fingered Rachel’s jade heart, which I’d picked up from the asphalt in The Freep parking lot. Touching it made me feel closer to her as I slouched back into the slanted theater chair and closed my eyes. I’d never loved a woman so completely before; from her ankles to her forehead, I loved every sinew that held Rachel’s body together. And in the process, I’d given Rachel a part of my soul.

  I opened my eyes to find Jack Nicholson staring at me, trying to convince the audience that he wasn’t a mental case. It had been BeJo’s birthday call to see One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. She liked tormented leading men. I stole a look at BeJo and screwed my face into a frown, hoping it looked like I was captivated by the movie. In a way, I was. I, like the protagonist in the film, also felt desperate, crazy, and afraid. My craving for Rachel had become something of an addiction. The vulnerability this realization exposed in me frightened me. But there was also a delicious thrill to spinning out of control with Rachel. I’d always liked living on the edge. But this edge could lead to chaos, and I knew chaos and politics didn’t mix. Something in my life had to give between Rachel and BeJo, or I’d be the next one checking into a cuckoo’s nest.

  Finally, the credits began to roll. The lights came on. It was time to face BeJo. My breathing quickened. Non-monogamy was such a bitch.

  “That was some weird flick!” BeJo said disapprovingly as we strode through the theater’s lobby. “I’m so glad you showed up—now you can explain it to me.” BeJo was dressed in h
er uptown clothes, a designer pair of charcoal slacks, which her long legs justified nicely, and a silk blouse. She didn’t approve of denim on birthdays and was more than willing to put politics aside to dress for special occasions.

  “I’m sorry, I had a long day with Morris Kight,” I mumbled. “We had a negotiation. It was intense—”

  “Don’t try to sidetrack me with politics.”

  “All right! After Morris, I was with Rachel and—”

  “I don’t need you to spell it out!” BeJo retorted, as we both squinted under the lobby lights. “Jesus Christ, you still smell like her.”

  I winced, unsure how to interpret her remark. “I didn’t think—”

  “You’re right, you didn’t think.” BeJo’s voice came out unusually shrill. “It’s my birthday, Jeanne. I know you’re sleeping with her, but why did it have to be tonight? Your timing sucks big apples.”

  I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops. I felt like a clod, hurting BeJo’s feelings on her birthday. “I’m sorry, BeJo.”

  I opened the lobby door for her and we walked onto the street together. “The trouble with your mind is that it’s too complicated.” BeJo read my ambivalence. “If I had a mind like yours, I wouldn’t understand myself either. But hey…that’s why I love you.”

  “So, it’s not my body?” I quipped, anxious to make the most of light talk.

  Reluctantly, BeJo put her arm around me. “Your body is okay, but your face is adorable. Let’s get real, honey—I’ve been in the Navy. I’ve had the very best.”

  “Speaking of sex, how’s Pody treating you?” I was still hoping to keep the topic light.

  “Lower your voice!” BeJo commanded. “Pody is just fine in that department.”

  “So, you don’t miss me so much anymore?”

  “Don’t be putting words in my mouth,” she snapped. “You’re still my primary lover. I’ve got my priorities straight, unlike some ditherheads I know.”

  “Ditherhead is my word, you can’t use it on me,” I teased.

  BeJo laughed as we ambled across the street and came to her car. “That’s another reason I fell for you. I’ve got a whole new vocabulary since I met you.”

  “By the way,” I said, holding the door open for her. “Thanks for not inviting Pody to your birthday party.”

  “It’s our party,” BeJo replied. “Let’s leave the others out of it.”

  BeJo’s party was at David’s, a restaurant on Melrose, a fifties queen’s bar with red flocked brocaded wallpaper and an interior dark enough to hide my guilt. My friend Robin had picked the location because she knew the piano-player. She had persuaded him to let us use his piano to sing songs to BeJo.

  Two hours passed, with BeJo and I having gratefully little privacy among her friends and mine. As the evening drew to a close, Robin came up behind me while BeJo was opening her presents.

  “You look pale as a white dyke,” she whispered in my ear.

  My buddy liked to tease me about being half-Mexican. In return, I called my Canadian-born friend a foreign alien. But tonight I had no snappy comeback.

  Robin picked up on my flat affect. “What’s going on with you?”

  I turned to her, suddenly realizing that Robin was my reprieve. Maybe she could help me figure out what do about Rachel, and what to say to BeJo. Robin had had dozens of lovers.

  “We have to talk!” I whispered under my breath, afraid of drawing BeJo’s attention. My eyes had filled with tears.

  Robin put her arm around my shoulder. “Poor baby dyke is bummed out?”

  “When can we get together?”

  “Lunch on Wednesday?” Robin offered.

  “I’ll come to your place,” I agreed.

  Getting dressed for bed BeJo thanked me for her party and gave me a goodnight peck on the cheek. She was more than tipsy, but sober enough to keep her distance. She clicked off the lights and turned over. I let out my breath, grateful that she hadn’t wanted to make love. I wasn’t sure I could have brought myself to that party.

  Lying next to her, I waited for the rhythm of her breathing to lull me but I couldn’t keep Rachel and the parking lot out of my mind. Would she take her jade heart back the next time I saw her? I turned away from BeJo. Her breathing had become regular. The woman was a staunch pragmatist. Tonight, she could do nothing about the state of “us” so she’d simply fallen asleep. I knew she was trying to wait out my relationship with Rachel, just like she had out-waited others before her, but I also knew she was angry about Rachel in my life.

  I’d been straddling the divide between lovers since I’d come of age in the world of love and sex. Since high school, there had been many who I had loved and lost: Donna, the gym coach who’d left to teach at another school; Kathy in my junior year; leaving the convent with the loss of a value system and a way of life; and then gay life and dozens of overlapping women, all carefully balanced against one another. By age twenty-six, I was sure that people didn’t stick around, and that love didn’t last. It was best to have backups. Until now. Until Rachel. Rachel, who had crept into my life through the back door I’d left ajar in case I needed to skip out. Rachel, who’d absorbed so much of me that I hadn’t thought of dating another woman since the day we’d kissed in the GCSC parking lot.

  And now I knew I was in trouble. My balancing act couldn’t last. Actually, my mother had first warned me about the instability of non-monogamy. When I was a child, she’d told me about the Colossus of Rhodes, a huge bronze statue of a warrior straddling two sides of the harbor of the Greek island city, with the ocean lapping dangerously between his two legs. Ultimately, the warrior had split, his balance rocked by earthquakes, and he had crumbled and fallen into the sea. The moral of that story: decide which shore you want to live on before you end up swimming with the sharks.

  I parked in front of Robin’s building and took the elevator to her second floor condo. Beachwood Canyon was where the rich people lived in substantially better digs than my Tide and Free Press salaries could afford. Someday I’d live here, I promised myself, when gay people were free and I could devote some time to climbing above the poverty line.

  Robin was standing in the doorway, already talking. “So, the kid has come home,” her voice boomed down the corridor. She was dressed in her usual work-at-home attire: T-shirt and men’s boxers. “Come in. You’re wasting my air conditioning.”

  Six years my senior, Robin was one of the few people in my life that I allowed to treat me as her junior. After years of her insisting that I was like her younger brother Bobby, I accepted that we were never going to have any other kind of relationship. Besides, I no longer had an older sibling. Dominica had left early for Stanford and was studying to become one of the first female rocket scientists. In my father’s eye, her rare achievements only compounded my queer-sheep status. Off in her high-security orbit, Dominica seldom invited sharing. Like a good, over-protective brother, Robin was always in my business.

  She grabbed me by the shoulder and tossed me into a soft, black silk couch that rested on plush, silver wall-to-wall carpet. “Sit!” she ordered, “Put your feet up. What do you want to drink?”

  “Coke, please,” I murmured, sounding small. I fell back into the cushy sofa and threw my legs on a matching black ottoman. Robin’s place was my home away from home because it bore no resemblance to my reality. With its silver-and-chrome-on black theme, picture frames, and chandeliers, I called her condo The Chrome Palace. It looked like the home Peter Pan might make for himself if he’d ever grown up and moved to Hollywood. Robin had invited few of our mutual activist friends here, and it was a comfort knowing I always had a place to hide from the movement.

  She returned from the kitchen and dropped a bucket of ice and six-pack of Coke on the glass table in front of me. “That should last you for a little while.”

  “You’re always so gracious,” I replied. “Makes me feel wanted.”

  Robin came to rest on the black and gray striped armchair facing me. “I graciously had to s
end a crying Patty out of here with Tito so you could come over and soak my shoulder,” she retorted. Patty Harrison was Robin’s live-in femme wife of seven years, although they were now non-monogamous and Robin slept with other butches. In fact, three years ago I was her first butch lover. Tito was Robin’s gay male roommate, a fellow comic. He specialized in domestic salvage operations for Robin.

  “Patty could have stayed—” I started to protest.

  “No way,” Robin cut me off. “She still gets hurt when I pay attention to you.”

  “Patty is genetically dramatic,” I rebutted.

  “Let’s not re-wash our old linens.” Robin waved away our past, which began with a show biz-intensive, six month drama lesson during which I’d lived with the two of them in a three-way love affair propelled by Robin being in love with me, me being infatuated with Patty, and Patty still in love with Robin.

  “So. Why are we depressed today?” Robin leaned forward, confronting me. “Me, I have lots of things to be depressed about. ABC has cancelled my pilot, Tito wants to move out, and Patty says she’s going to leave me if I don’t give up my butch lovers!”

  “What do you see in butches that I don’t see?” I queried, my eyebrows raised. Robin was the first butch I’d met who was attracted to other butches.

  “You didn’t come here to talk about my lovers,” Robin shot back. “Why are we depressed? We have Rachel. We have BeJo.” Robin paused, squinting at me. “Are we also seeing someone else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Robin’s eyes danced. “There’s no such thing as enough. You know me.”

  “We’re talking about me!”

  “Yes, yes. You’ll have to keep reminding me.”

  I laughed. Even when I was on a bummer Robin never bored me. “That’s okay; I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Robin vaulted out of her chair. “Do you want lunch? I’ve already started chicken soup. It’s as good for the heart as for the body.”

  “I’ll eat whatever you make,” I said standing up.