Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion

by Bennett, Saxon

  The teacher’s name was Paul and he’d been practicing and teaching yoga for fifteen years. “I want to impress upon you that this is not a competition but rather a coming into a growing awareness of your body and its abilities. If at any point you feel you are not comfortable with a particular pose you should stop and rest.”

  Uncomfortable, as in a hamstring removing itself from its bony attachment, Chase thought. She looked over at Bud. She was politely listening, but Chase could tell she was ready to get started. Bud was mostly about learning through the experience of trial and error. Chase looked around and noticed the other children squirming. Then, as Paul seemed to sense their irritation at having to sit still, he demonstrated the first pose, which was lying on one’s back, hands at the sides, palms up. This seemed easy enough, Chase thought, and then the contortions began. All the poses had strange names, which Bud seemed to already know, because as Paul explained the name, its pronunciation and then began his demonstration, Bud was already in position.

  A brunette woman with an ungainly two-year-old leaned over and whispered, “Has she taken a class before?” She seemed to be implying that while Chase was as uncoordinated as her two-year-old, Bud had the grace of a yoga master in training.

  “Not that I was aware of,” Chase said, trying to arch her back so she resembled a pissed-off feline about to attack—the cat pose.

  Paul walked around the room adjusting people’s poses until he came to Bud, whom he appreciatively studied, ignoring Chase altogether despite her misshapen cat pose. “My little one, you have found the golden path already.”

  Bud smiled demurely.

  After he left, Chase hissed, “You’re such a show-off.”

  Bud cocked her head and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “You could have studied as well, but you didn’t. Hence you look like an idiot whereas I have the grace of the ages.”

  “Some people find overachievers insufferable megalomaniacs.”

  Before Bud could snidely respond there was a scream from the back of the room and a young woman dressed in expensive yoga clothing had leapt up clutching her child and grimacing. Chase wondered if her hamstring had pulled its anchor.

  “Look!” She pointed at the floor near the sink with the dripping tap. Chase knew at once what the problem was. The yoga class was located in the basement of the Student Union building. The Northeast Heights had a horrible roach problem—which Chase had always found amusing as wealthy homeowners waged battle on the orange-backed menace that invaded their yards and houses. They were attracted by water and the dripping faucet was perfect. “Kill it,” the woman screeched, staring pointedly at Paul.

  “I can’t. In addition to teaching yoga I’m also a Buddhist monk. We are forbidden to kill any living thing lest it be an ancestor awaiting reincarnation,” Paul calmly said. “We must learn to live with them as they with us.”

  All the other women had now snatched up their children. Chase was about to do the same when she discovered that Bud had disappeared. Chase looked around frantically. The woman with the dimples and the young son touched Chase’s elbow. “She’s over there.” She let go of her son’s hand and he raced toward Bud.

  Chase stared uncomprehendingly as Bud handed the young boy a stack of Dixie cups and pointed at the offending insects. She demonstrated, coming up behind the cockroach and quickly plopping a cup over it. The boy followed her example and in no time the colony of cockroaches was ensconced in a flower-covered world of paper. Bud looked up triumphantly. “Yurt!” She held out her hand for the boy to shake and then went back to her yoga mat.

  Chase clapped her hands and then plucked Bud up in her arms. “You said a word, a real honest-to-God word. Your first-spoken-in-the-company-of-others word in real English.”

  The suburban woman who’d commented on Bud’s uncanny ability concerning yoga was perplexed. “Her first word was yurt?”

  The woman with the dimples, who had introduced herself as Lou when they exchanged names, laughed. “Considering the occasion I’d be proud. She just captured a rogue invader using a policy of containment rather than destruction.”

  Paul knelt down and smiled at Bud and her new friend Peter. “Good work.” Chase liked it when grown-ups got on a kid’s level. It was the height of politesse, like getting up when an elderly person needed your seat on a train or a bus. Her own polite behavior had only been thwarted once. When waiting in the doctor’s office for Gitana, she had attempted to help an elderly man get up out of his chair. It seemed the thing to do at the time, but she had underestimated his girth and while trying to help him up she’d ended up in his lap. He didn’t seem to mind having a pretty blond woman there but his wife did.

  The women resumed their yoga positions with wary eyes turned toward the paper cups and their unwilling occupants. Only during the short session of meditation was their vigilance forced to a stop. Chase thought meditation was kind of silly for a room full of kids until she discovered that meditation worked like a drug on tired children. Bud curled up next to her while Paul made soothing conversation to get them in the zone and then silence ensued. Chase tried to quiet her mind, only to discover that it refused to be still. Her thoughts had become a cat’s cradle of conflicting ideas—like two actors on a stage doing a monologue at the same time.

  “We’re supposed to be concentrating on being completely empty,” she told her mind.

  “Like that’s ever going to happen. Let’s use this time to work out that scene at the warehouse you’ve got coming up,” her mind replied.

  “That’s not what meditation is supposed to be like. It’s a time of no thinking, a blue space where I can find peace and harmony—a oneness with the universe.”

  “That’s bullshit. If you don’t want to think about the book, then let’s think about sex.”

  Sex was a topic that had been popping up a lot more lately. Since Bud’s arrival her and Gitana’s sex life wasn’t what it used to be. Chase, having never been the instigator, had depended on Gitana to keep the hearth fires warm. Now, it seemed, they were so busy and seldom alone except at the end of a hectic day that making love or rather making time for love had gotten bottom-shelved. Listening to Delia’s and Bo’s erotic short stories had made her think about sex. And now in the middle of a roomful of mothers and children she was thinking about it again instead of clearing her mind. It was horrid and she couldn’t have been more relieved when the whole thing came to an end.

  After class, Lou and Peter came over. Bud and Peter then went to help Paul slip pieces of the flyer for the yoga class under the paper cups so they could relocate the cockroaches. Paul had them put the nasty creatures into a plastic bag, telling them he would take them someplace nice where they could make a new home.

  “Do you really think he means that? We had a dog once that had taken to killing cats and my father told us he took him to a nice farm where he would be happy. Come to find out much later, he’d taken him to the pound,” Lou said.

  Chase thought about this for a moment. She put Japanese beetles into gallon-sized clear plastic bags and baked them in the sun to kill them after she’d meticulously picked them from her spinach and lettuce before they had the chance to destroy her entire crop. She did this without Bud’s knowledge, knowing it would traumatize her. She suffered some pangs of guilt, but justified it by telling herself that for the sake of the helpless and indefensible lettuce and spinach plants, she was forced to remove an evil entity from the universe. Besides she was almost certain that the destructive insects of the world were the product of God’s nightmares and thus could justly be eradicated. “If it were me, I would let them burn in the hot parking lot after class, but knowing that guy,” she pointed at Paul, “he will find a good home for them.”

  “Like the Republican headquarters,” Lou said.

  Chase laughed. Maybe Lily was right—it wasn’t that difficult to make friends. It helped that Chase despised the Republican Party, but what if she hadn’t? She wouldn’t have to say anything to the contrary. She coul
d do as Lily said—smile and nod.

  “Have you ever noticed that parents have the uncanny ability once you’ve reached a certain age to reveal truths that destroy the myths they created for you as children?”

  “Like the dog story?” Chase queried.

  “Yes. I mean why tell you these things so much after the fact that it makes absolutely no difference. I was happy with the myth,” Lou said, watching as her son poured the last cup of cockroach into the bag.

  Chase, suddenly remembering that Lou might be gay, tried to think of a way that Lily would approve of to find out. Finally she said, “Lou, I don’t know how to ask this but…”

  “Yes, Chase, I am gay,” Lou said as if sensing Chase’s trepidation.

  “This is so amazing—you’re the first other gay parent I’ve met. How are you and your partner handling it? I have a thousand questions.”

  The look on Lou’s face made it more than evident that Chase had once again screwed up. Lily had told the group before she sent them out like untrained dogs loosed on an unsuspecting public that they would initially fail and here it was. She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. Did I say something to offend you?” God, she hoped Lou’s partner wasn’t dead—a horrible car accident or cancer or any number of terrible deaths—leaving this poor woman with a child and without help and support. Chase’s face must have been the picture of regret for Lou touched her arm and smiled.

  “No, I’m not offended. I’m just another single parent who had a partner that decided being married and having a child wasn’t what she wanted after all. The hard part is that she is Peter’s biological mother and he can’t understand why she left us. Luckily, he sees me as just as much a victim and his only ally.”

  Chase was crestfallen and Lou saw it. “Don’t worry. We’re getting along fine.”

  “If you ever need help or a babysitter or car repairs or anything,” Chase stumbled.

  “You’re a mechanic?”

  “Well, no. I’m a writer, but when a person needs car repairs you also need other forms of transportation and with just the one of you…” Chase trailed off. She was making a mess of this and she was going to have to report this to her SUP group.

  “You’re Delia’s friend,” Lou said, obviously delighted. She smacked her forehead. “Hello? Chase Banter! I’ve heard all about you.”

  Chase was taken aback. Oh, God, what had the queen of smut said about her? “What did she have to say?” she asked, with evident trepidation.

  “Nothing bad. She admires you. She said you are talented and have a gorgeous wife and that she is in a monogamous relationship with Gitana’s sister, which I found rather miraculous considering…”

  “Oh.” Chase was relieved. Those weren’t bad things but rather facts. That Delia had stuck to the facts was a wonder in itself. “So what do you do?”

  “I own the Erotique.”

  “Oh.” Chase said. She was using that word a lot. She could hear Lily telling her that she was doing a poor job at making conversation.

  “I can see you’ve never been there. Delia does a lot of promo work in the online message board at her website. Reading erotica lends itself to buying some of the delights that we sell. You should really stop by. It’s a tasteful place,” she added, perhaps sensing Chase’s discomfort.

  “I see.” Chase chastised herself. That response was not much better than the “oh.” Lily would be truly disappointed with her lack of garrulity. She could see it now, Lily in her lilting English saying, “So you, the woman of words, have turned monosyllabic.” Chase contemplated not telling her but then decided being dishonest would not secure her success. “I will do that. I might learn something.” She was even more astonished by this remark.

  “That would be wonderful. It’s especially good for spicing up long-term relationships—not that it applies to yours. It’s just that sometimes as we are inculcated more and more into mainstream society we as lesbians seem to lose some of our sense of self. Our store is designed to rekindle that sense through a combination of sexuality and sensuality.”

  This suddenly made sense to Chase. In her new career as mystery writer she had, in essence, ceased to be a lesbian writer. She had turned tail and joined the mainstream, forgetting her past and her allegiances. “I know what you mean. Being accommodated has broken our ranks and with the lure of acceptance we have let our sense of community wane.”

  “Very eloquently put. Come by and we’ll have coffee,” Lou said, as the children, faces flushed, approached them.

  Chase smiled as Bud put her hand out to shake that of Peter, who with equal solemnity, grasped her hand and shook it.

  “You’ll be coming back?” Chase asked anxiously.

  “Of course. I would not desert you in this bastion of soccer moms.” Lou smiled.

  In the car Chase grilled Bud about Peter. “So you two seemed to be getting along splendidly,” she baited.

  Bud didn’t look up from her Merriam-Webster’s Pocket Dictionary.

  “What did you two talk about?” From what Chase could see Peter had done most of the talking.

  “Ffuts.”

  “Like what kind of stuff?” Chase realized she sounded like a neurotic overprotective parent of a well-endowed teenager. And this was the look Bud gave her—a mixture of annoyance and sardonic innocence. “I know you’re only four, but it’s never too early to be cautious around the opposite sex.”

  Bud rolled her eyes.

  “All right, I’ll leave it alone, but if he tries anything...”

  Bud sighed in exasperation and went back to studying her dictionary.

  Later that evening when Gitana arrived home she found Chase sitting cross-legged surrounded by a pile of books. Bud was painting the orbs of her model of the solar system.

  “What are you two doing?” she asked as she kissed the top of Bud’s head. Bud looked up sweetly. Gitana studied the model. “I’m glad to see you’re including Pluto. I think it was extremely unkind to demote a planet to a cluster of debris like that.”

  “Ditto,” Bud said.

  Gitana glanced over at Chase in a meaningful way. They’d decided that it was best not to acknowledge when Bud used the linguistic mode of communication of the country they inhabited. They had used this same method with the dogs. Jane, as a puppy, had refused to eat unless she was hand fed. Worried about her nutritional needs they had succumbed. Then finding themselves short of a dog-sitter they had to resort to putting the dogs in the kennel while they went on vacation. Jane had returned from the experience with kennel manners—meaning she grabbed at treats and was suddenly able to feed herself. They’d broken the grabbing, but they counted each day that she fed herself. They didn’t praise her. They pretended not to notice and the psychology worked. Jane was now a self-respecting dog and not a coddled puppy.

  Gitana glanced at the book titles. She picked up The Memory Board. Chase was marking passages with sticky notes on The Well of Loneliness. Chase put the book down. “I feel like I’ve lost my sense of lesbian identity. I tried to count how many lesbian thoughts I’ve had today and I came up with two. Only two. That’s downright disgraceful.”

  “What were they?”

  Chase glanced away. “One was academic.”

  Gitana smiled slyly. “And the other?”

  Chase glanced over at Bud, who appeared to be absorbed with getting the rings straight on Saturn. “I was folding underwear and, well, you know it made me think of things.”

  “What kind of things?” Gitana inquired, running her forefinger along Chase’s collarbone.

  Chase blushed profusely. “We’ll discuss that later.”

  “I certainly hope so. What happened to inspire this sudden reclaiming of your identity? Did the Pink Mafia pay you another visit?”

  “No, but had they been more astute they could have.”

  Chase thought back to when the Pink Mafia had accosted her. It had happened shortly after the publication of her second mystery. She’d pushed the memory aside for a year or so now,
but as anyone who has received a visit will attest, the experience is unforgettable. It’s not that they threaten to sew your vulva shut, only that they remind you of your duty to behave in a fashion acceptable to the high standards of lesbianism.

  Chase had been in Office Max replenishing her notebook and pencil lead supplies when two women dressed like FBI agents, including the dark sunglasses, had approached her. They were a tough-looking duo.

  “Ms. Banter, a word please.” One of the women guided her back to the binder section, which was devoid of other customers. The other one pulled out the yellow gate that the personnel used to block off the aisle when a forklift was in use.

  Chase frantically reviewed her list of indiscretions. She had promptly paid the parking ticket she’d gotten in Santa Fe. She’d immediately purchased Bluetooths when the hands-free ordinances had been instituted in Albuquerque. Both dogs were current on their rabies shots and she had refrained from looking up how to make bombs on the Internet despite the need to do so because one of her villains had used a bomb.

  Unable to contain her panic, she blurted, “What have I done?”

  One of the large women, the one with the black crew cut, took her glasses off to reveal penetrating blue eyes. “It’s what you haven’t done.”

  This sent Chase into a review of her current procrastinations. “Well, I have been meaning to replace that gutter and fix the hole in the stucco or there’s my lapsed magazine subscriptions and I really did misplace the electrical bill,” she blathered.