Agnes

by Jaime Maddox

  For two years Jeannie went on this way, suffering silently, closely observing the other girls in their mating dances, pretending she shared their fantasies about football players and wrestlers. Jeannie was mostly quiet and others thought her suddenly shy, and she was sometimes teased, but no one suspected the truth she kept so carefully hidden within her heart.

  She was terribly sad, and only being with Sandy helped. Enveloped in a blinding fog, wandering without direction or hope, Jeannie was lost, unsure how to control feelings she knew were wrong. She knew she needed to avoid Sandy and that she didn’t have the will to do it. She would have died without her.

  Then in an instant, the fog was blown away by a gust of wind, opening the portal to the sun, and all was suddenly clear.

  It was the summer of 1969 and evening in the Bennett household, on one of those occasions when her parents had decreed the need for family time. Jeannie loved her parents dearly, but she wasn’t particularly close to her overbearing mother. She much preferred to spend time with her more intellectual and laid-back father. And as far as her sister went, Jeannie was sure Jane must have been adopted, because they had absolutely nothing in common. They were civil to each other, and like most siblings, they were united in the war against their parents, but they didn’t hold common interests or views. Jane was currently in lust with at least a dozen boys, and while Jeannie was forced to tolerate that nonsense from her friends, she had no such obligation with her older sister. When Jane and her mother started talking, Jeannie ran in the other direction.

  The Bennetts were gathered in their den. The television was turned on, but no one was paying it any attention. The reporter talking was more background noise to her parents’ conversation than family entertainment. Jeannie and her sister Jane, home after her first year of college, had quickly exhausted their supply of conversational topics. Jane sat reading while Jeannie wrote in her diary. Suddenly, as if shot like a clown out of a cannon at the circus, Helen Bennett jumped from her chair and rushed to the television. In the instant between Jeannie noticing her mother’s brisk and unusual movements and the disruption of power to the television set when her mother unplugged it from the wall outlet, Jeannie heard a few fragments of a newscast that would change her life.

  “Police.” “Riots.” “Homosexuals.” “Greenwich Village.”

  All three Bennetts in the room were stunned by Helen’s actions as they observed her storming from the room mumbling about “unnatural sinners” and “the decline of society” and “the nerve of the television to broadcast such filth.”

  Jeannie looked at her older sibling and without words asked for an explanation of what had just happened. Her sister silently responded that she’d fill her in later.

  As soon as they were alone, Jeannie begged Jane for details. Her reserved mother’s behavior had been markedly out of character, and Jeannie knew that whatever had been discussed on that television program had been monumental. Jane’s synopsis, though brief, gave Jeannie the missing piece of the puzzle that allowed her to finally see herself clearly.

  “The police in New York beat up some queers, and now they’re rioting in the streets.”

  Jeannie studied Jane’s face, trying to discern the meaning of this without asking. She couldn’t. “What are queers?”

  Jane shrugged and sighed as if asking how she could be cursed with such a pathetic sibling. “Homosexuals!”

  Jeannie, having lived a somewhat sheltered life, and only having lived it for a short fourteen years, hadn’t yet learned the meaning of this word, either. “What’s homosexuals?”

  Jane just shook her head in seeming disappointment. “Homos. Queers.” She lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder at her mother, who obviously wasn’t listening. “Men who have sex with men. Women who have sex with women.”

  Jeannie’s astonishment had to be mirrored in her face, and misinterpreting her response, Jane shook her head in agreement with Jeannie. “I know, I know. It’s the most vulgar and disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of, but believe me—there are sick people in this world. I hope the police shoot every last one of them!”

  The look of shock on Jeannie’s face seemed to amuse Jane, who was sometimes caught up in a sibling rivalry that Jeannie refused to sustain. Jane’s knowledge about the Stonewall Riots seemed to make her feel powerful, though, and with her gloating she didn’t see the truth—that this knowledge didn’t appall Jeannie. It intrigued her. Her feelings for Sandy were suddenly validated by the simple act of naming them and the knowledge that others like her existed. Jeannie’s head was spinning and her heart was pounding, and she didn’t know what to do next, but she was sure of one thing—her feelings were something she could never share with her sister. To her great relief, Jeannie was quite sure Jane was clueless.

  Upon Jane’s retreat to her room, as was her custom on summer evenings, Jeannie escaped to Sandy’s house. Unable to suppress her excitement, she couldn’t wait to talk to Sandy. There was a name for what she was! She wasn’t the only one in the world like this. She was a homosexual, and there were other people like her, far away in New York City. Suddenly, Jeannie had a great hope—that if there were other homosexuals in New York City, there might be one living right next door. She loved Sandy, of that fact she had no question, and she felt like Sandy loved her. Sandy had never given Jeannie any indication that her feelings ran any deeper than best-friend kind of feelings. But maybe, just maybe, they felt the same way.

  “Did you hear about the homosexuals in New York City?” Jeannie asked when she burst breathless into Sandy’s room. In her excitement, she had sprinted all the way from her house, through Sandy’s, and up the flight of stairs to reach her. Sandy was lying on her bed reading while the Beatles sang in the background.

  “What?” Sandy asked.

  “The homosexuals!” Jeannie exclaimed.

  “Jeannie, what are you talking about?” Sandy sat up and was staring at her. It was summer and Sandy wore only a skimpy halter and short shorts, so Jeanne concentrated on looking into Sandy’s eyes and not at her hard, lean, sexy body.

  Jeannie studied her face, and her own fell with disappointment. It was clear Sandy had no idea what she was talking about. Jeannie had been wrong. Sandy wasn’t like her. They might have millions of homosexuals in New York City, she thought, but I’m the only one in West Nanticoke.

  Over the course of the coming months, Jeannie found it increasingly more difficult to deal with her new identity. Her feelings for Sandy were real and seemed to grow stronger, despite her attempts to control them. Failing to rein in her hormones, Jeannie finally decided she either had to do something about this or go mad. She opted to confront Sandy and learn if she reciprocated the desire that had been tormenting her for three years.

  As was their ritual, Sandy and Jeannie spent a Saturday evening playing bridge with her grandmother and a neighbor. They had been welcomed into the game when Sandy’s grandfather passed away a year earlier and the other member of the foursome suffered a stroke. Of course, they played for money. Sandy and Jeannie were connecting that night and, with delight, Jeannie hauled in her share after a winning hand. “I need to start saving my money,” she announced. “I’m going to the prom.”

  Sandy’s eyes flew open in wonder and then—or did Jeannie imagine this?—they clouded over. She wasn’t sure Sandy heard another word she said after that, and she certainly lost the ability to concentrate on her cards. Soon after, they retired to Sandy’s room, having surrendered nearly all of their earlier winnings. Jeannie felt a chasm between them that she’d never known in their dozen years of friendship.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked Sandy after she exited the bathroom, turned off the light, and quietly crawled into bed beside her. She didn’t reach for Jeannie, as she normally would. She didn’t try to touch her. She just seemed to sink into the mattress and disappear.

  After a moment’s silence, Sandy responded in a whisper. “No.”

  Jeannie knew Sandy well enough to know
she was lying. It killed her to think she’d brought such despair to the girl she loved. Suddenly, her plan didn’t seem so smart. Yet she didn’t have a way out except by moving forward. “I have a problem,” Jeannie confessed, inching next to Sandy in the dark.

  “What’s that?” Sandy was polite but didn’t sound very interested in Jeannie’s response. Sandy seemed somewhere far away, lost in her own thoughts.

  “What if he tries to kiss me?” Jeannie asked.

  “That’s disgusting!”

  Sandy’s reply was so abrupt that it took Jeannie by surprise and she tried to laugh at the harsh response, but she was too nervous. Why did this have to be so difficult? “I’ve never kissed a boy before,” she confessed.

  Sandy was silent.

  “I was wondering if we could practice?” Jeannie whispered, afraid to speak the words out loud.

  “Practice?” Sandy asked, sounding confused.

  Jeannie hardly knew what she was saying, so she wasn’t surprised that Sandy wasn’t following. She sighed in frustration.

  “Yeah, practice kissing,” Jeannie suggested again. Her heart pounded in anticipation of Sandy’s answer, and her mouth grew so dry she didn’t think she could speak again.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and Jeannie studied the silhouette beside her, waiting for a response. Hoping that Sandy didn’t laugh or, worse yet, kick her out of bed, Jeannie held her breath.

  “You want me to kiss you?” Sandy rolled over toward her as she spoke.

  She fought to keep her voice from cracking and managed to answer. Jeannie reached for Sandy’s hand, which was beside her face on the pillow, and squeezed it softly. “Please?”

  Sandy didn’t seem to think, just to react, for the word was barely past Jeannie’s lips when she felt Sandy’s lips against hers.

  That first touch—soft, tender, tentative—set off an explosion of sensations, and Jeannie fought to control her breathing even as she heard the sounds that indicated Sandy was struggling with the same difficulty. Jeannie edged closer and Sandy met her, and they began a more thorough investigation of each other’s mouths, with lips and tongues sucking and probing and leaving Jeannie dizzy and panting and wet. So wet and hot.

  Jeannie circled Sandy’s waist with an arm and pulled her closer still, only to be enveloped as Sandy wrapped herself around Jeannie.

  When did she begin the grinding of her hips against Sandy’s that was sending shocks of pleasure through her body? When had Sandy reached inside her shirt to caress her breast? Time was lost as they kissed and sucked and rubbed and moaned, until suddenly Sandy pulled herself away and jumped from the bed. Crossing the room, she sat on the bench that matched the vanity, her body folded over, cradling her head in her open palms.

  Jeannie wanted to scream in frustration. She wanted to cry in anguish. A few minutes in Sandy’s arms proved what she had known, that she loved her and wanted to make love with her. The silk of her mouth, the weight of her breast, the curves of her body had driven Jeannie mad in just the short time they had touched. How could she ever not want her? Now that she had tasted her and felt her, how could she live without her?

  Jeannie cried out. “What’s wrong? Why did you stop?”

  “This is wrong,” Sandy cried, her voice barely more than a whisper. That was all she could manage as tears choked her voice.

  Oh, fuck! Jeannie thought, running her fingers through her hair. She had really miscalculated! She had been wrong to do this. Sandy wasn’t homosexual at all, and Jeannie only hoped she wouldn’t be really disgusted and allow the kisses they had shared and this reckless plan to ruin their friendship.

  Jeannie could hear sniffling from across the room. She pulled herself up and approached Sandy, but stopped at the hand Sandy held in front, keeping her at bay.

  Not wanting their kisses to end and at the same time fearing Sandy would suspect the truth about Jeannie’s sexuality and hate her for it, Jeannie pleaded with her. “I need more practice,” Jeannie begged. “Please.”

  Sandy looked up and met Jeannie’s eyes, and Jeannie saw the answer there before Sandy could voice her feelings. She wasn’t going to kiss her again. “I don’t want you to practice so you can kiss someone else, Jeannie. I only want you to kiss me.”

  “What?” Jeannie couldn’t believe Sandy’s words. That was all she wanted to hear; it sounded too good to be true.

  “I love you, Jeannie.”

  How her knees held her, she wasn’t sure, but she made it the few steps to the bench where Sandy rested and sat beside her. She placed a hand on Sandy’s trembling knee and leaned into Sandy, resting her head against her shoulder. “I lied,” she confessed.

  “Huh?”

  “I lied. About the prom. About practicing kissing. I don’t have a date. I just didn’t know any other way to get you to kiss me. And I’ve been going out of my mind with wanting you to kiss me for ages!”

  Now they looked at each other and both laughed as they realized the irony of their situation.

  “Really?” Sandy appeared incredulous. “Since when?”

  Jeannie stood and pulled Sandy by the hand, leading her back to the bed. “It all started when we were three. But it’s been especially awful for the past few years.”

  “That sounds about right,” Sandy answered as she followed closely.

  When they reached the edge, Jeannie stood before Sandy and caressed her face with gentle fingertips. “Now, where were we?”

  Neither of them could be aroused for church services the next morning.

  “What are you smiling about?” Sandy asked, pulling Jeannie back to the present.

  “I was just thinking about our first kiss.”

  “I believe it should be in the record books for great kisses.”

  “I agree.”

  They kissed—slowly, deeply, tenderly.

  “It’s a good thing I saved you from boys,” Sandy told her.

  “I can’t wait for you to save me from my parents!”

  They were planning their escape, and Jeannie was anxious, counting the days until they graduated high school and went away to college. While Sandy’s grandmother loved her a great deal, she allowed Sandy certain freedoms that Jeannie’s overprotective parents didn’t. Jeannie was constantly critiqued on everything from her hair and makeup and clothing to her choice of music and decisions about school activities. Even her plans for a career in medicine, which might have elated most parents, caused Jeannie’s mom concern. Helen Bennett would have derived considerably more pleasure from her daughter marrying a doctor than studying to become one.

  Sandy realized the result of this general atmosphere of conflict was Jeannie’s desire to leave home and never return. Yet while she wanted more than anything to be with Jeannie, she loved her grandmother and knew in her heart of hearts she would never break those ties. As they did with every debate, Sandy knew they’d work it out and find a compromise. It would be her way in the end, she suspected. Once Jeannie was away from her parents and began to miss home, she’d be more tolerant of the minutiae that now drove her insane.

  “What time are we leaving?” Sandy asked. Today was a big day for them, the wedding day of the Grabowski sisters. Carol, the older sister by thirteen months, worked with Jeannie at Jimmy the Jeweler across the river in Nanticoke. Linda twirled cones beside Sandy at Farrell’s Ice Cream. The sisters and their siblings had moved to this side of the Susquehanna six years earlier when their mom remarried, and all five Grabowskis rode the school bus with Sandy and Jeannie. Although natives of Honey Pot, the family was welcomed into the West Nanticoke gang and fit in like they’d lived in town their whole lives.

  Like the big sister she never had, Linda had taken Sandy under her wing when she began working at Farrell’s three years earlier. She was sassy and fun and loved to break the rules. They were total opposites yet got along famously. Linda gave Sandy her first cigarette, a habit she quickly passed along to Jeannie. In the storeroom at Farrell’s Sandy enjoyed her first beer, complim
ents of Linda’s brother Chaz, and she and Linda had the best shift ever. Linda was blissfully happy with her fiancé Jim, and everyone anticipated having the time of their lives at the wedding.

  “The ceremony starts at one. Twelve?”

  “Your dad’s driving us?” Sandy inquired. Neither she nor Jeannie had cars. They didn’t really need them, and they were saving every cent for their life in New York. Secretly they had opened an account at the Nanticoke National Bank and saved over a thousand dollars toward their future. Even with scholarships they’d need spending money.

  “My mom. We’ll have to bum a ride home.”

  Sandy nodded in agreement. With half of the town at the reception, they’d have no trouble finding a ride.

  Sandy leaned closer, resting her head on Jeannie’s pillow. They kissed, savoring the last moment of bliss, knowing they had to get out of their bed and dress for the wedding. They wouldn’t be able to hold hands like other couples, or dance close together, or show each other any affection in the presence of the wedding guests.

  Soon, though, that would change. Their life together would be just as they dreamed it.

  As they curled up together, blissfully in love, silently anticipating the promise life held for them, they were completely connected to each other, completely oblivious of the world around them.

  They were unaware that a few hours earlier, two hundred miles to the south, a burglary had occurred at the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate Complex in Washington, D.C. The investigation into that break-in would lead to the eventual resignation of President Richard Nixon.

  They were similarly unaware of meteorological events unfolding fifteen hundred miles away, near the Gulf of Mexico. They hadn’t yet heard the name Agnes.

  Three days earlier, a tropical depression had developed in the Caribbean Sea, and the day before, it had been upgraded to a tropical storm. Agnes was crawling through the Yucatan Channel east of Mexico, but in the coming days she would morph into the first Atlantic hurricane of the season, growing ever stronger as she thrashed along the eastern seaboard of the United States. In these dark days, the skies would pour more than seventeen inches of rain over the state of Pennsylvania. By the time she had unfurled all of her fury and faded out to sea, Agnes would become the costliest hurricane in the history of the United States.