Beggar of Love

by Lee Lynch

She realized she’d been completely absent as she followed Dawn’s instructions. She announced, “One more run, though.” Conscious of what I’m doing this time, she thought.

  She eased out on the road and drove them to Dawn’s house in town, maneuvering over two ice patches and parallel parking on about two inches of snow, to show off.

  “Ginger would be amazed,” she said.

  “I’m amazed. You were like a robot in an electrical storm when we started. All charged up and currents gone wild.” Dawn reached for her and they hugged.

  Jefferson looked at her as she opened the car door. Something comforting about Dawn allowed her to breathe more deeply in her presence. Dawn had a Saturday Lake stillness to her. “Thanks for scraping me off the wall. Let me treat you to lunch?”

  “I wish,” Dawn replied. “Drew and Ryan are running over to the Home Depot in Tilton, and I need some things.”

  “You and this community—it’s like you’re married to it.”

  “Married would be wonderful. I so envy all the years you had with Ginger.”

  “Hey, you know, I did feel married. I don’t think Ginger ever did. I don’t know. It wasn’t like that with us. We had a different kind of marriage.”

  “Maybe you can give us country bumpkins lessons.”

  “Right. Lessons. Me. Did you want all your dyke friends to run off with your gay male friends?”

  “Whoops.”

  She managed a three-point turn on Dawn’s narrow street and drove to the real-estate office quickly, as if the roads were clear. She was afraid she would turn back and ask Dawn and the boys to invite her to go shopping with them, like some lonesome little kid.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The three-quarter moon hung over a hill across Saturday Lake. Jefferson was alone in the ancestral cottage long after even the hunting camps had run out of beer and gone to bed. The lake was not known for its nightlife. Her windows were open to the cool air. The silence reminded her that the loons were gone for the winter. Not even the loons for company, she thought.

  She hadn’t brought all that much in the way of possessions, having been in a mood to empty her life of the old. She was spending time at the natural-food store in Wolfeboro, buying whatever would cleanse her abused liver of alcohol’s abuse. Sleep came at odd times and she almost always gave in to it. Daily, she went into or out on the lake. There was something peaceful about a lake: the waters were still, the encircling land was a calming green. She loved the sounds of a boat on water and the occasional shout, slammed door, or honk of a horn on shore. The sky seemed to surround her in a protective embrace.

  Her new home was larger than the apartment in New York, but it seemed easier to keep neat, with its smoke-darkened, wooden walls and big windows that looked out at water or trees on both sides. Her queen bed seemed to dwarf the master bedroom. She felt incomplete without her bouts of melancholy. Would a dog help? Its needs would give a structure to her days. Then she ran into a little kid shivering outside the grocery store who had been trying to give away six tiger kittens all day, with no luck, and expected her father to arrive soon, prepared to do away with them. He’d had the mother fixed, the little girl explained, and was picking her up now. She got to keep the mother, but these kittens were so cold. Jefferson carted them all home with a promise to return their blanket to the kid’s family. So much for a dog, she thought.

  Timid at first, they turned into little ruffians. My gang, she called them, and gave them the names of graffiti artists she’d noticed in the city. Little Star, Dust, Risky, Crunch, Doze, and Lionel did fill up the bed, not only with their own fuzzy bodies, but with kitten spit-up and other mistakes she hadn’t anticipated. She could have had an animal back in the city if she’d been sober enough to feel she’d be there to give it enough attention, and if Ginger had been interested. Now not only did the kittens have a home, but with them around, she felt like she had one too; she couldn’t remember a lonely night. Maybe this was what she and Ginger had needed, little beings dependent on them.

  Dust clambered over one foot now, grabbing for the ends of her running-shoe laces. Doze lay, paws up, on her grandfather’s easy chair next to the front window, where she could see beyond the porch to the lake. Jefferson loved these things right out of her childhood; better she have memories of her family than of Ginger. Like she could deny memories of Ginger. Risky was batting at the vertical blinds that lay open to the night. Lionel and Crunch were boxing on the couch and Little Star was feinting at Dust’s tail. She laughed aloud. She was making up for all those kittens Jarvy wouldn’t let her have, all those puppies she’d yearned for. Damn, she should have done this years ago. There was no question in her mind that alcohol had taken almost everything from her. Look how long it had been since she’d stopped drinking, and she was only now finding what she really liked in her life: the lake, the kittens, her home, her new friends. She was one of the lucky ones who’d been able to stop drinking.

  Jefferson bent to pick up Crunch, the puniest cat. He’d had such a hard time eating dry kibble at first. Every bite was a stretch for his little jaw, but he’d insisted on chewing it like the bigger kittens and made the loudest crunches imaginable when he succeeded. Crunch’s tail was still a little spiky, slow to fill out like the others’ tails. He was responsible for putting Jefferson back to sleep when she came wide-awake in the dark, only to remember that Ginger wasn’t beside her. Crunch would climb to her chest and settle at the base of her throat, almost singing, he purred so heartily.

  “What kind of life are we going to have together, Crunch? Will it always be calm and quiet like tonight, the seven of us hanging out together?” Crunch wriggled to get free and she set him on the couch. “Are you my way of keeping all possible girlfriends at arm’s length? Who would want someone with six cats?” She wondered if that was why she’d gained all this weight. Being attractive to women had been its own high; she didn’t know if she wanted to go there again. Maybe the kittens and the weight were anchors, exactly what she needed to be self-sufficient, untempted by the liquor and sex in which she’d tried to drown herself. She had become a victim of her own myth: too many women, all too welcome in too many bars with her free-spending ways, craving the attention good looks engendered.

  One Saturday afternoon she heard a rough knock on the heavy wooden front door. Little Star looked up at her with wide eyes, then vanished back under the bed.

  “I came to meet the kittens,” Buck said. He held out an icy-cold leather-gloved hand.

  Jefferson sat Buck on a stool at the breakfast counter and filled two heavy mugs with hot chocolate and miniature marshmallows. She told him to help himself from the chipped gray pig that had been her grandmother’s cookie jar. She stocked it with macaroons. Risky was already sniffing Buck’s shoes, and Doze was sniffing Risky’s bottom. “Chocolate. My last addiction.” She raised her mug in a toast to her guest.

  “If I’d known you wanted a cat, I could have given you some of ours.”

  “Part you and Serena from your babies? No way.”

  She collected the kittens and took them all, in her arms, to Buck. Only Crunch stayed on his lap, looking up at Buck’s neat silver beard in what appeared to be wonder. He finally climbed up Buck’s jacket and tried to cuddle with the beard, but lost his footing. Buck held Crunch against his cheek.

  “How’s Serena?”

  Buck brushed his beard back and forth against Crunch. “You know she had another treatment this week. She’s always pretty unhappy after one of those. Our oldest daughter arrived to help out. They don’t think much of my cooking.”

  “Cooking? What’s that?”

  She opened the freezer and showed him her collection of Lean Cuisines. The refrigerator closed, rubber on rubber. The seals were dried out; she’d need a repair soon. Buck laughed in his neat, quiet way. He was so much like Pipsborough itself, classy without being pretentious like so many of the people who lived over on Lake Winnipesaukee, which they seemed to think was not only larger than Saturday
Lake, but better quality. Properties went for less on Saturday Lake and tended to be like the Jeffersons’: big enough for the family that owned it, but not a country estate or one of the newer, wasteful McMansions that were replacing so much of the forest.

  There was a crash from the bedroom. Quickly she scanned the room. “Risky,” she called. She got up and peered into the bedroom. The green-shaded banker’s lamp was on its side on the night table, but hadn’t broken. Risky charged out from under the bed and grabbed her foot.

  She carried Risky in and settled in the easy chair. Buck carefully checked the couch for kittens before he sat.

  “I see that the Conservation Trust is getting the Kents’ land.”

  “Thank goodness, yes.” Buck’s sweet smile grew wider. “The Kent kids are keeping the house and an acre around it. They almost sold the whole piece, intending to give a percentage of the proceeds to the Loon Preservation people over in Moultonborough.”

  She considered. “This is better, right?” She’d always been vaguely aware of environmental issues, but beyond contributing to a fund for Central Park, she hadn’t paid much attention to them. “Better than one of these second-home zillionaires who are driving out the natives and the little people and the cabins on the lakes to rip out trees and build five-thousand-square-foot homes?” Like Pipsborough, Buck was a strange mix of Republican and conservationist.

  “I think it’s better. The more land that’s available to wildlife, the more they can thrive.”

  “You’re a closet liberal, Buck,” she teased him, kicking back in her recliner and locking her fingers behind her head.

  “I can’t think of anything more truly conservative than conserving nature,” he said, with that winning smile. “It’s a shame we have to depend on the government to protect so much of it.” He had Star on her back in his arms and was scratching her tummy, but now he looked sad. “You don’t know where to devote your energies or who to send money to. So much is needed. A cure for cancer would be a priority for me right now.”

  “Don’t you think Serena will make it?”

  “Serena’s been making it for about ten years now. I think the cancer is catching up with her.”

  “You think she’s going to—”

  He nodded and lifted Lionel. Star spat and wriggled free. “The cancer has spread.”

  What had people said to her when Ginger was sick? “I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What can I do?”

  Buck laughed quietly. “You’re doing it, coming into the business with me. I never wanted a big firm, but I do need a second agent.”

  She bowed. “At your service.”

  “And I like your lack of ambition.”

  His words startled her. “I do want to make sales, Buck.”

  Buck put a hand up. “I know, but you don’t want to develop every parcel of lakefront. Some agents are so money hungry they’re blind to the consequences of their greed. I see the realty business as a service, not a get-rich-quick scheme, although it’s been good to us. Putting a big chunk of land like the Kents’ into the Trust’s hands is better for our bottom line than ten gated developments that destroy the reasons people want to live here.”

  “I don’t need to get filthy rich,” she assured him. “But I am going to have some cat-food bills to pay now.” She rattled a box of treats. Lionel looked up and the other kittens came running. “Whoops. That was a bad move. Here, go ahead and give them some, Buck.”

  Unlike most guys, Buck didn’t claim more than his share of space, but she could not imagine living, sleeping, with—oh, ugh, facial hair, and all the rest. She thought, how could you, Ginger?

  Buck was talking about a commercial building in town that he had listed, and the kittens were tumbling over one another on the kitchen floor. When her cell phone rang she expected it to be for Buck, but it was her mother.

  “Ginger’s brothers are here, at the apartment,” Emmy said.

  “What are they doing there?”

  “They want her things.”

  She’d put off going through Ginger’s closet. It was too painful. “Did they say where they’re moving them to?”

  Emmy consulted with them and she heard Kevin reply, “Home. To our parents’ apartment.”

  “Let me talk to him, Emmy.”

  Kevin was the one who gave Ginger the roughest time about living with a girl. What did the family want with Ginger’s possessions? There were lesbian books and photos of them together. “Kevin,” she complained, “I’d like to keep a few items.”

  “Calm down. They want something to remember her by.”

  “I’m trying to remember what’s what. Leave the books, okay? Hers and mine are all mixed in,” she lied. “And there’s a box of photos, nothing your parents would want.”

  “Where’s the urn?”

  “The urn?”

  “With my sister’s ashes. Mom and Dad at least want to bury her ashes.”

  “Kevin, Ginger wrote the family that she wanted her ashes scattered here at the lake. I already went out in the boat and did that.”

  The line was silent for a long moment. She could imagine Kevin struggling with his hot temper. “Tell your mother where everything is, okay? I need to get this done before five.”

  “It’s the things in the guest-room closet, isn’t it, Amelia?”

  She didn’t want to sound desperate to her mother and named a few other items. “You can buy a new toaster, Emmy,” she said to her mother’s protests. “I’ll buy you a new microwave. It’s Ginger’s and it’s very old. Give them my number here and my e-mail address in case they need to get hold of me.” She knew she was trying to avoid cutting the last ties. “Don’t let them take—” She listed a few items they had bought together or she had bought for Ginger.

  “They’re starting to pack things. I need to go, Amelia.”

  “Give my contact information to Joseph, not the older one, not Kevin.” She wished it had been Joseph she’d talked to. He’d been closer to Ginger and more sensitive than Kevin. He’d once given Jefferson a framed sketch he’d done from a photograph of Ginger dancing. She’d never felt more accepted by the family than at that moment.

  “Everything all right?” Buck asked when she ended the call.

  She’d never said anything to him about being gay. Surely he’d figured it out. Would she lose his mentorship, her job, if she was open? “I lost someone I love too, Buck,” she said, waiting to see if he preferred not to know.

  “It was the woman you mentioned—Ginger? Is that why you left the city?”

  “Staying on alone,” she explained. “The person leaves her marks everywhere. Your home, your block, your friends’ houses, your favorite restaurant. Like echoes coming back from someplace you can never reach again.”

  “Did Ginger die?”

  “Yes. Here, at the cottage.”

  Buck’s face was full of sympathy. “I’m really sorry. How long had you been…friends?”

  “Something like thirty years.”

  Almost whispering, Buck said, “Us too.”

  That made her eyes smart with tears. She turned away and got the carton of milk from the refrigerator.

  “Not for me, thanks,” Buck said. “I need to pick up some Kytril from the pharmacy and get home with it. The old nausea med stopped working.”

  She nodded, still unable to speak. She wasn’t the only one not having fun. The cats scattered when Buck stood. He held out his arms and looked at her. They hugged quickly, tight.

  “See you at the office,” Buck said as he replaced the chair, scraping its rubber casters against the linoleum. He let himself out.

  She stood in the kitchen swallowing her tears. It was always like this. Suddenly she’d find herself howling in protest and pain, having no memory of a transition from not thinking about Ginger to full-throttle hurting, usually late at night, with nothing to distract her. Bent double once more with the agony of loss, she let the tears out. Some day she would stop cryin
g. Some day she would move on. Doze stared at her, then came timidly and rubbed against her ankle. She felt a smile break through her tears, along with an exhilarating swell of love. What could she learn about love from six kittens? Adopting them, wanting to care for them, being loved was the best decision she’d ever made.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dawn, who in the city would be called a sporty femme, sat slightly inside the wide, dark doorway of her garage. If someone had asked Jefferson what a sporty, or tomboy, femme was, she would have mentioned girls’ softball and basketball and power tools. She would have described a woman not afraid of a challenge, who could also fold clothes neatly, cook well, and make a butchy woman feel powerful even as she gave over her power to the sporty femme.

  “What’s this one going to be?” asked Jefferson.

  Dawn was whittling with an old green Girl Scout jackknife. She held the carving up and laughed. “A bird. Doesn’t look like much, does it? I’m trying to get the wood to curve as smooth as a woman’s hip.”

  Jefferson raised one eyebrow, but Dawn didn’t notice. Although Dawn’s conversation was not without sexual references, she hadn’t expected her to say something that sounded so butchy. This rural Amerasian librarian was so unique that she was fascinated.

  It was a mostly sunny day. Every now and then a dark cloud blocked the light enough that Dawn set the bird down. Jefferson couldn’t help but wonder if country femmes seemed butchier than city femmes because they had to be more self-reliant. Once she would have checked this notion out, but these days she was about as interested as that wooden bird would be. Her life had a certain skeletal feeling right now that both scared and comforted her. Without the complications of juggling relationships, she felt free, but she had no clue about how to live unencumbered, with only herself to consider. These new friends, like this cheerful tomboy femme—she hadn’t built much history with them, had no commitment to them, hadn’t made love with them. She was still a free agent.