Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  Finally, El pushed back and looked at me. Her gray eyes were shiny. “I hoped you’d be here.”

  I nodded. My throat was thick. “I came for dinner.” I knew it sounded stupid . . . obvious. I had a hard time finding my words. They were tumbling all over themselves inside me. I couldn’t latch onto the ones I really wanted because I wanted them all, in every possible combination.

  El smiled, and I felt my insides melt. It was so palpable that I was tempted to look down at the ground beneath us, just to see if all of my pent up hope and longing was seeping out between my toes. This was it. This was my moment. And I knew that I would never get another one. I knew that I needed to tell her, and I knew that I needed to tell her now, while I still had the chance.

  I dropped my head to her shoulder. El rested her hand on the back of my neck. Her palm felt warm and strong.

  “I love you,” I said.

  She hugged me closer. She muttered something indistinct. It sounded like “thank god.”

  It didn’t really matter. None of it mattered.

  For once in my life, I was fully, completely, and one hundred percent present. I no longer saw my world through a glass darkly. I saw it face-to-face—in bold, brilliant, and breathtaking color. And I understood that the fullness of life that spread out before me in that single explosive moment would be enough to light my path for the rest of my days.

  After dinner, El and I walked together through the waning light. It was a warm evening, but cooler breezes continued to blow in from the north, and that made it feel almost fall-like. The dogs raced off ahead of us, but occasionally, they would stop and look back, just to be sure we were still following along. We didn’t have any particular route in mind, although El said she wanted to visit the rhubarb patch again. I thought it was likely that Grammy’s garden would always serve as our self-styled Mecca. Somehow I knew that this would be a pilgrimage we would make often, and always together.

  I had been shocked to learn that Grammy knew all about El’s career transition. I had no idea that all through the days leading up to Tam’s big announcement, El had been spending a good deal of time with Grammy, trying to sort through the tangled web of her feelings for me, and her uncertainty about her future with the UAW. I was equally stunned to learn that El had actually been staying at Grammy’s since her resignation from the union. I made that discovery when she reemerged after a so-called trip to the bathroom, dressed in shorts and one of my old, faded Salukis t-shirts. When I looked at her new ensemble in confusion, she just shrugged and smiled.

  “She’s staying in your room,” Grammy explained. “I told her to help herself to any of those old work clothes you keep here.”

  On our walk, El explained that Arnie Erdmann’s firm had been pursuing her for some time. She had already concluded that for the American labor movement to survive, it would have to embrace innovative approaches. That meant thinking outside the UAW box, especially with regard to the new paradigms presented by transplant manufacturers.

  Nearly as surprising was my discovery that the puppies weren’t Grammy’s, they were El’s. She said that adopting them was the first thing she did when she made her decision to leave the UAW.

  “I wanted to put down roots, and they seemed like the best way for me to start,” she said.

  As we meandered along the path that led to the garden, and I watched her “girls” lope ahead of us in their curious, non-linear patterns, I asked her about their names.

  “I get the whole giving them boy’s names as an homage to Lucille thing,” I said. “But why Jimmie and Eddie?”

  She had her arm linked through mine, and she tugged me closer as we continued along the path beside the garage.

  “My father’s name was James Edward. His memory is very important to me—it still drives everything I do in my work life. I guess I wanted him to have a connection to my personal life, too.” She looked up at me and smiled. “That’s a new thing for me . . . a personal life. I know now that I deserve to have one.”

  Her simple explanation filled me with happiness.

  “We both do.”

  “I need to figure out a way to get my car and the rest of my things here from Buffalo.”

  “Oh,” I teased. “That purple, side-loading dish washer you rolled up in isn’t your car?”

  She bumped my side. “Nice try. It was the only thing they had at Enterprise when I turned in the SUV.” She looked at me. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “You know I’ll help you move,” I said. Then I grinned at her. “We can use Grammy’s pickup.”

  “Great idea,” she replied. “You can ride in the back . . . you already have the outfit for it.”

  “As charming as I’d look, those aren’t exactly moving clothes.”

  “True,” she said. We walked on for a bit. “I also need to find a place to live.”

  I was tempted to tell her she could just stay with me. I nearly said it, too. I think El realized that I was biting something back.

  “I can’t move in with you,” she said.

  Even though I knew she was right, I still felt disappointed. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re not teenagers,” she replied. “I want us to take our time and do this right.”

  “I want that, too.”

  “Besides,” she said, “I’m pretty sure we’re both aware that we’ll be spending all of our time together when I’m not in Tennessee. It’s better for us to at least have the illusion of maturity.”

  I smiled. But the mention of her travel schedule made me think about something else.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to take care of those two spawns of Cerberus, do you?”

  She looked offended. “Of course I do.”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

  I nodded.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet . . . but I think you’ll probably enjoy it.”

  “Well, that sounds like a win-win proposition to me.” She gave me one of her professorial looks. “Maybe we have this whole thing backwards?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you should be the high-powered negotiator and I should be the one who gets paid to play with Legos?”

  “Legos?”

  She looked up at me. “Isn’t that what you do all day now? Make little models of toy assembly lines?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Exactly. That’s precisely what I do all day.”

  We rounded a corner and entered Grammy’s garden. The midsummer heat had taken its toll on the plants, but they were still loaded with fruit. Cucumbers, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers glowed in the fading, blue and white light. Thick vines loaded with butternut squash sagged toward the ground.

  “The green ones are my favorites,” I added.

  El gave me a confused look. “Excuse me?”

  “Legos,” I said. “I’m partial to the green ones.”

  She socked me on the arm. “Nut job.”

  Fritz and the puppies came crashing through a row of pole beans.

  “Do they ever settle down?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Great.”

  El leaned into me. We stopped and watched the dogs disappear behind a cluster of maple trees. The sun was nearly down now, and the lightning bugs were starting to flit about in search of . . . whatever it was lightning bugs did.

  I gestured toward a row of sunflowers, where we could see them beginning to light up the night sky.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing?” I asked.

  “The lightning bugs?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re searching for their mates,” she said.

  I gazed at them for a minute, aware that El was watching me. I met her eyes and bent toward her, she met me halfway.

  We were getting pretty good at that maneuver.

  After we separated, I took hold of her hand and we walked on, into the
soft Hoosier night.

  About the Authors

  ANN McMAN is the author of seven novels and two short story collections. She is a recipient of the Alice B. Lavender Certificate for Outstanding Debut Novel, and a four-time winner of the Golden Crown Literary Award. An award-winning graphic designer, she resides in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

  SALEM WEST is the publisher of Bywater Books and a Trustee of Lambda Literary. Previously, she was the voice of The Rainbow Reader, a highly regarded review blog that combined original essays with insightful analyses of all genres of LGBT literature. She lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with her wife, Ann McMan.

  Acknowledgments

  The exercise of producing this book presents a better example of collective bargaining than the story it purports to tell. And that’s one point of view we can all agree upon.

  We extend special thanks to the 6,721 residents of Edwards County, Illinois, who informed the telling of this story, which also is their story. We borrowed liberally from an endless supply of anecdotes and a rich lexicon of family names. To all of the unsung heroes now going about their quiet lives in the lower Midwest, this Old Style’s for you.

  Thanks also are due to the real life “agitators” we have known and loved. We each are mindful of the formative experiences we had logging countless hours on production lines in manufacturing plants—and are grateful for the important lessons we learned. Fond recollections of the people we knew and worked with found a home on nearly every page of this book.

  We tip our hats to the real life T-Bomb, Terri Smith. Thanks for your many years of friendship, truth-telling, and unwavering support. You’re a one in a lifetime pal. Now read this damn book.

  We are insanely proud of Barrett, Sandra, Bev, Baxter, and the rest of our extended family at BInk, and the synergy of talent, verve, and psychosis we exude—especially at IHOP, when we’re trying to split a check. TOTS.

  Warm hugs, special thanks, and a top-secret handshake go to our FOWH Lodge Sister, Barista. You do honor to the headgear.

  Maddie, Gracie, and Lucy? The public works project you undertook to excavate two-thirds of the back yard while our attentions were diverted stands as a testament to canine engineering. Thank you for finding so many creative ways to amuse yourselves during the months it took for us to write this book. We also extend special thanks to Cooper, the late, obese Jack Russell terrier who provided the inspiration for Aunt Jackie’s dog, Lucille.

  To Marianne K. Martin and Kelly Smith, thank you for giving our little heartland romance a brand new home that is warm and loving.

  Last, but never least, is the sincere debt of gratitude we owe to our wonderful community of readers. Your unflagging warmth, support, and encouragement give value and meaning to everything we do.

  —Ann McMan and Salem West

  At Bywater Books we love good books about lesbians just like you do, and we’re committed to bringing the best of contemporary lesbian writing to our avid readers. Our editorial team is dedicated to finding and developing outstanding writers who create books you won’t want to put down.

  We sponsor the Bywater Prize for Fiction to help with this quest. Each prize winner receives $1,000 and publication of their novel. We have already discovered amazing writers like Jill Malone, Sally Bellerose, and Hilary Sloin through the Bywater Prize. Which exciting new writer will we find next?

  For more information about Bywater Books and the annual Bywater Prize for Fiction, please visit our website.

  www.bywaterbooks.com