Love Over Moon Street

by Saxon Bennett

  Now, here was this wonderful woman who listened and laughed and made Vibro feel good. She smiled at Sparky. Whatever they had or were about to have felt good. “Okay, now your story.”

  “Ah, the ugly sordid tale of love, desire, violence and insanity,” Sparky said. She leaned back on the couch and clutched Vibro’s grandmother’s pillow to her chest.

  “Sounds fun.” Vibro spun one of the coasters.

  Sparky smirked. “I am reaching the how-did-this-happen stage in the Lesbian Break Up Stages of Recovery,” Sparky said, tossing the pillow at Vibro.

  “Is that like the Serenity Prayer thing?” Vibro clutched the pillow to her own chest. It retained the scent of Sparky and she breathed it in, lavender with a hint of orange and a dash of sandalwood. Vibro was a scent aficionado. To insure the pillow retained the scent she tossed it back for further exposure. Sparky put it behind her head and Vibro sighed.

  “Yes, well, kind of. I’ve started this chart on my bedroom wall and I’m creating zones where I put certain pivotal points in my relationship with Wesson. I’m currently working on the ‘Causes’ section.”

  “And you’re doing this because?” Vibro said, ruminating on the fact that Sparky was not only handsome, she was evidently smart. It occurred to Vibro that she was smitten.

  “I need to figure out what went wrong. How do two people fall in love, live together for nine years and end up hating each other?”

  “Wow, if you figure that out you could write a self-help book on love and get rich,” Vibro said.

  “I’d just be happy to know the answer. How can I ever hope to have another relationship without knowing why this one went bad?”

  “You know what I think happens?”

  “Oh, do share,” Sparky said.

  Vibro noticed her empty glass. “Want another round? This might take awhile.” Vibro wanted to spend more time with Sparky. She’d explore all the philosophical questions Bertrand Russell could throw at her to keep Sparky on the couch.

  “Sure, let’s live large.”

  “And when I return I will explain the nature of the Lesbian Universe to you.” She got up and took Sparky’s glass.

  “I shiver with anticipation.”

  Vibro stopped. “Like in the movie Rocky Horror?”

  Sparky smiled. “It’s one of my top ten favorite cult classics.”

  “I love that movie. Maybe we could watch it sometime. Jennifer thinks it’s stupid.” Vibro bit the inside of her lip. Had she crossed a boundary too soon? And perhaps one that never should’ve been crossed—a river not to be forded? That was a nice poetic line, she thought. For a moment her art distracted her from being disturbed about her potential social indiscretion.

  “I’d like that. Wesson preferred foreign films. I hate subtitles. If I have to read a movie, then it’s not a movie, is it? It’s a book with pictures.”

  “Perfect, then it’s a date.” Vibro blanched. Oops, insert boot into extra large and gooey cow pie. Maybe her haiku should read, “Forded the forbidden river. Stepped in extra large cow pie.” Okay, she was two syllables short of a proper haiku, which has seventeen, but whatever. She was a sucky poet anyway, and she knew it. She amended her statement. “I don’t mean a date date. I mean, you know like…”

  Sparky laughed. “I know what you mean. I’ve got an open calendar these days. Wesson got what friends we had along with the house.”

  “Figures. I’ll be right back.”

  Vibro’s hands shook a little when she opened the diet sodas. Christ-on-a-bike, she had a crush—a bona fide crush—on Sparky. She should feel guilty. A stab of guilt pierced her left ventricle. Perhaps the forbidden river was not to be crossed. Okay, maybe the haiku missing two syllables should read, “Guilt pierced her heart. The forbidden river was not crossed.” Better but still not right, being four syllables under the haiku requirement. Syllables be damned. She jotted it down anyway on the nearest piece of paper she could find, which was a paper towel. She always kept a pen in her pocket but never paper. Writing surfaces weren’t hard to find. You could always use your skin, which Vibro did from time to time. She might even stay up and write a full-length poem, she thought as she returned to the living room with the sodas.

  Sparky took a sip. “You know what I figured out about my drinking? It’s habit more than desire. I need something in my hand, something to sip on, but it doesn’t have to be alcohol. Isn’t that funny that it took me all this time to find that out? I suppose my other project will take even longer due to its complexity.”

  Vibro sat down on the couch within sniffing distance of Sparky. Was sniffing lustfully the same as having an emotional affair? She didn’t anticipate jumping Sparky’s bones or texting her eight hundred and forty times in a day. Olfactory stimulation was just a hobby—like wine tasting, Vibro told herself.

  “So? Are you going to clue me in on the nature of the Lesbian Universe?” Sparky said.

  Vibro, still caught in her ethical dilemma about extramarital sniffing, had gotten off topic. She stared blankly at Sparky.

  “Oh, that. It comes down to one-night stands. See, guys are guided by their biology to engage in one-night stands. They view sex as sex—the execution of biology—to spread their seed as far and wide as possible. That’s how they are programmed. Women, on the other hand,” Vibro put out her hand palm up for purposes of demonstration, “are nesters. Sex means setting up a home and having babies.”

  “But…”

  “I know. Hold on, I’m getting to that part. Just because contraception has allowed the sidestepping of procreation does not change the genetic and biological behavior of humans. Guys want to get laid. Women want to make homes. Lesbians are no exception. I slept with Jennifer and convinced myself it was love then marriage and in your case…” Vibro said, metaphorically handing her the ball.

  “She stalked me at college for two semesters, although I was unaware of it before she got up the courage to ask me out for coffee. We had two skinny lattes with vanilla and then you know…”

  “Next thing you knew the two of you were playing house,” Vibro said.

  “Which was so not like me. I’m kind of a plodder when it comes to relationships.”

  Vibro made a mental note of this. Sparky was a plodder. Oh, that you should plod my fields, oh horse of love—another good line.

  “I’d just broken up with Kate, my first girlfriend. We’d been together for three years. I should have known it was a rebound thing. I mean, Wesson was so different. She had very eclectic tastes—foreign films, art—and was an amateur photographer. Kate was outdoorsy, loved to hike and camp and listen to Van Halen really loud. Wesson was quiet and didn’t much care for music. I was afraid that I might go back to Kate if I didn’t do something that would make that impossible. Kate had left me for another woman, but that relationship was faltering. Wesson filled the spot perfectly or I thought so at the time. It seems I was wrong.”

  “And it took nine years and one eye bite to come to that conclusion,” Vibro said.

  “I should have just slept with her and moved on. Perhaps in the case of lesbians casual sex should be banned. Don’t sleep with anyone until you’re absolutely sure that you want to spend the rest of your life with them,” Sparky said.

  They both laughed.

  “Yeah, and it’s so easy to tell how horrific or wonderful a person is when you first date them,” Vibro said. “Women are deviously clever in hiding their faults until they have you hooked.”

  “When does the disenchantment begin, do you suppose?” Sparky said.

  “That is one question I will have to ponder.”

  “You do that. Now, I think I need to go to bed,” Sparky said.

  Vibro glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to midnight. “Yes, I’ll need to be up on my game when the prodigal girlfriend returns.”

  “Buy her a cheap phone,” Sparky said.

  Vibro’s gaze lingered as she thought. “I will,” she said, and she thought she just might.

 
“First steps are always the most difficult, but still you’re moving forward even if you are taking baby steps.”

  “I had no idea you were a philosopher electrician.”

  “I have many hidden talents,” Sparky said, waggling her eyebrows.

  Vibro blushed.

  Chapter Ten

  Time Alone

  Cheryl awoke and saw light streaming out under the bathroom door. They’d taken to keeping their bedroom door open at night in case Pen needed something. Or rather they only shut the door when they did grown-up things. There had never before been a need to shut any door—excepting the bathroom door. They were still getting used to making love with someone else in the apartment. At first it felt like having sex in your parents’ house, trying to keep quiet so your mother wouldn’t hear you having an orgasm. It added a little spice. Lexus thought it was fun. Cheryl was still tentative about expressing full-flung passion with a child sleeping down the hall.

  “I’ll soundproof the walls,” Lexus said. “Or rather,” she smiled mischievously, “I’ll have Sparky do it. Did you know that she’s working on Apartment Number 4, getting it up and running so Old Grouchy Pants Agassiz can rent it out again?”

  “Are you going to talk through this whole thing?” Cheryl said, running her hand up Lexus’s thigh. The talking stopped.

  Now awake again in the middle of the night, Cheryl slipped out of bed and stood in the hall. She put her ear against the bathroom door and listened. She didn’t hear water running or the toilet flushing. She stood quietly. A muffled gasp slid past the door. She tapped on the door. “Pen?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then another. “Pen?”

  “Yes?” came the disembodied reply.

  “Are you all right?”

  No answer. The door opened a crack and Pen peeked through. Cheryl could tell she’d been crying. “I’m okay. I’m just having a moment.” She shut the door. “Having a moment” was Lexus-speak for a meltdown. Pen was already starting to sound like Lexus sometimes. Cheryl couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or not.

  Cheryl was silent. She didn’t know what to do. This was another prime example of why she, despite being set on motherhood, was not cut out for it. She was at a total loss. Like the other night when she’d gone in to check on Pen and discovered her sleeping under the bed. She had been alarmed to find the empty bed. Then she’d seen the edge of the comforter underneath it. She leaned down and found Pen.

  “Why are you sleeping under the bed?” Cheryl had asked.

  “It’s safer here. People can’t find you,” Pen said, rolling on her side so she could face Cheryl, who was now also lying on the floor. She’d been horrified. Why would a child have to hide under a bed except to avoid predators—mother’s boyfriends, strangers in the shelter, the possibilities were frighteningly endless.

  “Pen, you’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you or scare you. You can’t even get in the building without a key and we lock all the doors. You trust Lexus and me, right? We would never hurt you.”

  Pen seemed to consider this. “I just always do it.”

  “Maybe I could get you a night-light and you could try and sleep on the bed, just give it a try. How about that?”

  “I could try, but if I can’t sleep, I can go back to my safe place?”

  “Yes, you can, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Okay.”

  It had broken Cheryl’s heart. What kind of a world did they live in that a child felt best hiding away? And now this. If it weren’t for Lexus, she didn’t think she could pull off this fostering thing; a part of her still wasn’t certain. This child-rearing thing had to be from a two-parent position and Cheryl wasn’t sure she was a good second parent.

  She thought of her own upbringing. She didn’t sleep under her bed or hoard food or carry everything she owned around in a backpack, but she had been raised by an overbearing mother and an aloof father. She didn’t want her child to be raised without both parents being active participants.

  Her parents’ entire premise about family dynamics revolved around keeping her father in the dark when it came to the ups and downs of child-rearing. Cheryl never knew if this was because he didn’t want to know or couldn’t handle knowing. Her mother was a complete control freak. Her goal was not to have a democracy. She saw the house and its contents, which included Cheryl, as her personal fiefdom. If her father had wanted to participate in her upbringing, he’d have had to storm the castle and topple the warlord.

  While she was still pondering what she should do next, Pen opened the door again and said, “A bad one.”

  “Is there a reason you’re having this moment in the bathroom?” Cheryl asked, wondering if perhaps it was a physical ailment and this “bad moment” could be addressed from the medical point of view. Sickness, she could manage. Distress was Lexus’s forte.

  “I’m just used to having them here.”

  Cheryl considered this. Did Pen mean she was used to having her “bad moments” in their bathroom? In which case how many “bad moments” had she had that they didn’t know about? Or did she mean that she had her “bad moments” in bathrooms in general? Unable to decide, Cheryl fell back on what she knew best. She chose the diagnostic approach. “Can you tell me why?”

  “People leave you alone in the bathroom because they’re afraid you’re pooping.”

  “But you’re not pooping, right?” Cheryl said. Was it bad to wish it was a case of diarrhea or constipation instead of the mental breakdown because she was a physician and not a shrink? She thought perhaps it was.

  “Well, no. I’m remembering.”

  “And it’s making you sad?” Cheryl felt like they were playing Twenty Questions.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it about your mom?”

  “Today was her birthday or would have been her birthday,” Pen amended.

  “Oh,” Cheryl replied. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Pen looked tentative. “Do you want to come in?”

  It was Cheryl’s turn to be tentative. “Why don’t we go sit on the couch?” she suggested.

  She hoped this wouldn’t turn Pen away, but the idea of sitting in the bathroom despite its state of order and cleanliness wasn’t appealing.

  “Okay,” Pen replied. She came out holding a small black vinyl photo album, its edges and corners so worn that the cardboard backing was showing through. It was a pathetic-looking thing. Cheryl suffered an immediate pang for this poor child who had so little.

  They settled themselves on the couch and Cheryl pulled the afghan that her grandmother had made for her eleventh birthday off the back of the couch and put it around them. Pen probably never knew her own grandmother. She’d probably never stayed anywhere long enough to collect stuff like this. She tried to imagine her grandmother’s afghan on a bed in a shelter.

  And to think the religious right didn’t want her to adopt a baby. However, irresponsible straight people had no qualms about bringing a child into the world where all they would know was lack of opportunity, poverty and discord. Here she and Lexus were giving Pen a better life than she’d ever had, but society frowned on them and wouldn’t grant them any of those “special rights.” What a load of hog shit that was. Now, she sounded like her grandmother.

  Pen pulled the afghan tightly around her. The bathroom was not the warmest room in the apartment to do one’s ruminating and Cheryl didn’t know how long Pen had been in there before Cheryl found her and they had adjourned to the more comfortable confines of the living room. She would give her a dose of zinc and vitamin C with her breakfast. It was May, but the nights were still cool.

  “What’s that?” Cheryl inquired, pointing at the album.

  “It’s all I have left of her and that makes me sad,” Pen said, not looking at her.

  The volume was thin. Cheryl wondered if it was full or like most photo albums never finished. Everyone starts with good intentions of organizing their photos, but few finish the task. She remembere
d her mother signing up for a scrapbooking class with the idea of taking twenty years of photos and putting them in neat memory books with cute stickers and fancy matting. She lasted three sessions and gave up. “I haven’t got the aptitude for it,” she stated, putting her photos back in the plastic baskets where she kept them.

  “You have your memories of her,” Cheryl said. She wondered if that was such a good thing because there were some not nice things in those memories.

  “But I’m only ten. What will happen when I’m twenty-six or even thirty.” She said the word “thirty” like it was ancient. “Will I remember then?”

  She had a point, Cheryl conceded. She couldn’t remember being ten and she was now thirty-three.

  “I don’t remember what her voice sounded like and she didn’t pay the cell phone bill so we lost the phone. I could’ve had her message voice at least.”

  Voices were hard. For some reason the mind did not retain a sound memory like it did a visual memory. Cheryl didn’t know what to say, so she did what doctors do when stumped, they move on. “If it’s all right I’d like to see your album.”

  She was afraid that Pen might turn her away, not trust her enough to show her the most precious thing in her young life, but Pen brightened. “Really? You’d like to see it?”

  “I would.” Cheryl switched on the reading lamp. They’d been sitting with the streetlight coming in through the bay windows—a sort of confessional gloom.

  Pen opened the album. Cheryl could see it was full, not all with pictures, though. It was more like a scrapbook in that it contained admission tickets and brochures.

  “This was the time we went to the zoo. Martha Sue bought a disposable camera.” And a movie stub with a box top of Milk Duds glued to the page. “We went to see The Lion King. It was my first movie.” Pen had archived her life with her mother as if she knew it might be short-lived.

  “When did you put all this together?” Cheryl asked, thinking her mother would be jealous of this child’s ability to chronicle her life in such an orderly fashion.

  “Starting when I was six. Martha Sue wasn’t good at hanging on to things. So I did it.” Pen pointed to her baby footprints and birth certificate. Cheryl noted that the father space was marked with “Unknown.”