Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion

by Bennett, Saxon

  “Stella?” Chase said incredulously.

  “She is a private detective. She located P.H. Kinjera and Ellen MacNeil. P.H. is flying in from San Francisco and Ellen is coming from Louisville. They’re going to stay at the house. They seemed thrilled.”

  “They’re staying at Stella’s house?” Chase’s imagination was ablaze with the horrid possibilities.

  “Well, it’s certainly big enough and hotel rooms are so impersonal. I thought we could take them up to Santa Fe on the train and show them the sights. They’ve never been here. You know, the little sand houses commonly referred to as pueblo-style adobes—the planning committee must have stock in ristras. God, you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, but they seem to fascinate tourists. I have no idea why. We’ll take them to see the Native Americans selling jewelry on the plaza. Now, those are some hardworking artisans that could use some financial support as well as recognition. Don’t you think?”

  Chase’s mind swam. This couldn’t be real. Bud had moved on to Handel and seemed delighted with her new toy. Perhaps she was dreaming and the music was her alarm going off.

  “Let’s go over this again: You want me to be on a panel, my mother is putting up two lesbian writers and we’re going to do a little sightseeing with people I’ve never met before and you bought me this souped-up iPod as payment?”

  “There could be other incentives if need be,” Lacey said, looking around again to see if they were lacking some crucial item in their immediate environs. She noticed Bud plunking away one-fingered style on her computer. “Eureka” crossed her face. “And I know what it is.”

  “Lacey,” Chase said.

  Lacey interrupted her, “Please, please, please. I’ll send Bud to Harvard or the Sorbonne, all expenses paid, anything—an expedition to the Antarctic.”

  Bud looked up at this. “No!” Chase said. “And in case you’ve forgotten Bud has a hefty trust fund, courtesy of the malpractice settlement of Bud’s conception that Stella and that skank family lawyer of ours, Owen, obtained to provide for her care, feeding, electronic devices and education.”

  Bud brought out her small Curious George coin purse, looked inside and then turned it upside down and raised her eyebrows.

  “You don’t get your allowance until Saturday. And if I remember correctly you owe me money for letting Jane pop my exercise ball.”

  Bud pursed her lips and gave Chase the stink eye. She went back to downloading her classical library.

  “How’d that happen?”

  Chase was secretly relieved that their domestic issues had diverted Lacey’s attention. “Bud has boundary issues. Jane was displaying an overly keen interest in my exercise ball due to its size. Bud couldn’t stand the pining and gave in. Jane dribbled it down the hill and then attempted to bring it back up the hill and popped it in the process.”

  Bud put her hands up in mock resignation, as if to say, “Dogs these days.”

  “Well, anyway about the panel…” Lacey put on her best pleading face.

  “I’m not good at stuff like that and if Eliza finds out, she’ll kill me. I’m supposed to be divesting myself from the lesbian stuff.”

  “I’ve thought of that. We’ll put you behind a screen.”

  “Oh, that looks good. I’m on a panel about the state of lesbian lit and I hide behind a screen.”

  “You’ve got a point there.” Lacey stuck her face between her hands and closed her eyes, apparently deep in thought. “I know, we’ll put you in disguise.”

  “What, like glue on a fake mustache?”

  “No, that might offend the menopausals in the audience. You know how sensitive they are about facial hair.”

  “Oh, my God, this is not happening,” Chase said, her voice gaining several octaves.

  Bud made some clicking noises on the computer and then called out. Chase flew over, immediately petrified that she’d hurt herself. Lacey followed. Bud pointed at the computer screen. She had taken a picture of Chase and run it through a magazine cover program. It showed Chase with her hair turned strawberry blond and tied up with seductive stray hairs loose about her shoulders. Then she had added on groovy square glasses and a low-necked frilly dress shirt.

  “That’s fucking brilliant! Oh, sorry about that, Bud.” Lacey put her hand over her mouth.

  Bud shrugged and pointed at Chase, who shot her a dirty look. “Mi ginog ot raews.”

  “You are not,” Chase said.

  “What did she say?”

  “Something about a similarity in our lexicons.”

  Lacey’s brow furrowed and then she looked at the computer image. “All right, then, this is going to work. No one will recognize you.”

  “I’m not dying my hair and dressing like that,” Chase said indignantly.

  Bud giggled.

  “C’mon, you’ve got to do it for the cause. We’ll use temporary dye and I can fix your hair like that and get you some real girl clothes. You’ll be the star of the show. There’s nothing like a hot lesbian writer to stir up support, not to mention sales.”

  “You’re going to make me prostitute myself,” Chase said. She looked at the clock and prayed Gitana would show up to save her as Bud clearly had turned traitor. It was five minutes to three. She studied the dogs sitting out on the deck. They would pick up the sound of the Land Rover’s engine long before Gitana pulled up in the drive.

  Lacey’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think those book signings are all about? You’ll do it for straight people, but you won’t help out the women who started your writing career. How crass is that?”

  Chase flinched. Lacey did have a point. It was rather ungrateful.

  The Muse of the Divine Vulva popped up. “She’s right, you know. Besides it will help with sales. If you sold more of your dyke books, you-know-who,” she pointed at the Muse of Commercial Endeavor, who was sulking in the corner after the last altercation, “would leave us alone for a while.”

  I’m fucking surrounded, Chase thought.

  “Just do it. You could get some good material out of the deal,” Lacey prodded.

  That was another point. Chase had been out of the loop. She’d need to recharge her lesbian batteries if her cast of quirky characters were to evolve properly. She certainly didn’t want a flop on her hands. This book needed to come out fresh and exciting or her audience would think she’d lost her touch.

  The dogs heard the Land Rover and darted off the deck toward the front gate. Chase relaxed. Surely Gitana would see the madness and get Lacey to see the futility of such a project. Gitana came up to the writing studio and poked her head inside. Bud jumped up with glee and pulled her inside, screaming, “Ees, ees!”

  “What is this all about? Hello, my lesbian sister,” Gitana said. Lacey had taken to calling her friends “my lesbian sister,” informing everyone that they were part of a long-standing, reaching-back-to-the-time-of-Sappho, tribe. Chase absolutely refused to do this. Converts were like ex-smokers—zealous in their new cause.

  Bud pointed at the screen. Gitana leaned down. “Wow, who’s that?” She smiled lasciviously.

  “You know damn well who it is,” Chase said petulantly.

  “I’d date her if she wasn’t already taken,” Gitana said, winking at Lacey, who smirked.

  “She wants me to go in disguise or rather dressed like a prostitute,” she said, darting a look in Bud’s direction. She didn’t want to have Bud looking up the word in one of her many dictionaries. “To do this lesbian panel to promote dyke things.”

  “Dyke things, you make it sound like it’s going to be a promo show for...” Lacey glanced at Bud, who was changing Chase’s shirt on the computer, apparently studying color schemes. She lowered her voice, “Sex toys.”

  “I think you should do it. Lesbian voices and images are getting sucked up into mainstream culture. We’re losing ourselves,” Gitana said. She stroked Bud’s hair and took a quick look at her color choice.

  “I thought that was the whole point of gay liberation,” Cha
se muttered.

  “No, it’s not,” Lacey said. “We want to be part of mainstream culture as ourselves—as a recognized entity, not as some fringe group to be tolerated in the I-know-a-lesbian-and-she-seems-normal talk at dinner parties.” She flounced down on the couch and punched one of the worn blue pillows. “It makes me so mad. Here I am trying to do my best to improve the situation and you won’t stand by me.”

  Gitana raised an eyebrow at Chase.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it but under protest.”

  “Chase,” Gitana admonished, pointing at Bud.

  “It’s a hopeless cause. She already swears in her own tongue. We’ll just have to brief her about not doing it in public.”

  Lacey leaped up and gave Chase another bone-crushing hug. She kissed her on the lips and said, “I love you. I’ll get everything set up.” She patted Bud on the head and then said, “You’re brilliant and you’ll get a payoff.”

  Bud smiled.

  Chapter Nine—Persuasion

  And make persuasion do the work of fear.—Milton

  “I think this panel idea is great,” Jasmine said as she lounged on the sagging couch in Alma’s living room.

  Bo poured the coffee and automatically handed the milk to Chase so she could cut the steaming black liquid.

  “I’m totally stoked and I’ve already got an outfit picked out,” Delia said.

  “I can only imagine,” Chase said, taking a sip of her coffee and rolling her eyes at Alma, who smiled congenially.

  Delia crossed her legs and adjusted her gauzy long skirt. Chase wondered how long this Stevie Nicks-a-la-mode-Tinkerbell stage was going to last. She’d learned the other day during their study session on natural history with Bud that moths were kindred to butterflies, differing in body type and nocturnal habits but like them undergoing what was referred to as a complete metamorphosis in that the adult did not resemble the larvae in any way. Clearly the former butch had undergone a complete metamorphosis. Chase hoped never to undergo such a radical change.

  “It’s tasteful yet accentuates my various still-nubile accoutrements so as to inspire lust and thus book and ebook sales as well as advertising—if we can get those kind of people,” Delia said, giving Bo the eye.

  “I’m working on it. I can’t help it if these fags are picky graphic artists who insist on perfecting their icon,” Bo said defensively.

  There was a crash outside and then other crashing noises and then a child’s squeal of delight. Chase glanced out the window to assure herself again that Bud was wearing her safety goggles.

  “Bud is helping Mrs. Givens smash a twenty-four piece dinner set,” Alma explained.

  Jasmine opened a roll of mint-flavored Mentos and handed one to Chase, who eagerly took it.

  “I can only have one,” Chase told her. Jasmine nodded, sticking the roll back into her messenger bag as if it were a moonstone to be protected from eager thieves.

  “And why is that?” Bo asked, peeking out the window. Chase could see Bud lifting a dinner plate over her head and smashing it down.

  “She’s bonding with Mrs. Givens. She saved up her allowance to buy that dinner set,” Chase said rather proudly—like Bud was helping the poor and perpetually deprived rather than assisting an elderly woman to smash plates, cups and saucers for the pure enjoyment of it.

  Jasmine, who had been just as interested as Chase in Mrs. Givens as a character study, pouted and then said, “I don’t get it. Bud brings her a dinner set and then they break it. Whose idea was that?”

  “It was Mrs. Givens’ idea, but it was Bud’s desire. It was a pretty ugly dinner set,” Chase said.

  “Do you think that’s a safe thing for a four-year-old to be doing?” Jasmine asked petulantly.

  “Who are you, OSHA? She’s wearing safety goggles,” Chase said.

  “Children, I’ve invited Mrs. Givens for tea on Sunday afternoon and you can both come listen to her stories, which I’m sure she would be delighted to share with you—both of you,” Alma said. Chase and Jasmine stuck out their hands and shook and simultaneously mumbled apologies.

  “The only reason I brought Bud was that everyone else was booked. It was her suggestion to get the dinner set. I didn’t put her up to it,” Chase said.

  “I’m sorry. I know you would never do anything so underhanded and self-serving as using your child to further your artistic career,” Jasmine said. She screwed up her face. “Would you?”

  “Jasmine!” Alma admonished.

  “Well, you know, you guys are always telling me I’m gullible, so I was just checking.”

  “You don’t suspect someone and then tell them that,” Bo said.

  “It’s a good thing you have Lacey and us to watch out for you,” Delia said, topping off all their coffees, which had grown cold.

  Jasmine pursed her lips. “Is there a book or something?”

  “About what?” Bo asked. He was a hands-on kind of guy. In Bo’s eyes, you figured stuff out—you didn’t look it up.

  Delia was pretty much the same, although Graciela had purchased the Joy of Cooking book for her and she was devouring its contents and becoming a good cook. Chase had noticed Graciela’s expanding waistline. Chase, having now reached her forties, was watching hers. She’d purchased a Wii system and she and Bud ardently played Outdoor Adventure, which was an exercise game on a sensor mat. Bud always kicked her ass, but all the jumping, running and reflex training made her sweaty and seemed to keep off the ten extra pounds that turning forty was supposed to deliver around your middle like an unwanted present.

  “She wants a manual on how not to be gullible,” Chase replied.

  “Read more thrillers,” Bo suggested. “When you can figure out what the characters can’t then you’ll be better versed in the evils of the world.”

  “I like that,” Jasmine said cheerfully.

  “Or you could go to Chase’s SUP meetings,” Delia said, with a smart look on her face.

  Chase blanched. “How do you know about that?”

  “Graciela reads your message board and saw the card with the name of Lily whatever-her-name on it and the dates and times of your little get-togethers.”

  “That’s a violation of privacy,” Chase said, glaring at her.

  “Don’t put something somewhere so everyone can see it,” Delia retorted.

  “Eop,” Bud said, as she entered the room.

  Chase forgot her irritation and smiled at her. “You’re right. It’s like the purloined letter.”

  Alma patted the couch next to her and Bud nestled in between her and Jasmine. “Don’t tell me you’re reading her Edgar Allen Poe as bedtime stories,” Alma said.

  “No, we read it in the garden at midday so we, myself included, don’t have bad dreams.”

  Bud took the proffered bottle of water from Jasmine and sipped it greedily. “Drah krow.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Alma said, patting Bud’s hand.

  “You understand her?” Chase said.

  “Of course, we’ve had lots of pleasant conversations,” Alma said. Bud clasped her hand and smiled angelically. Alma was another one of the trusted circle that Chase allowed to watch Bud when schedules got tight.

  “I know it’s a kind of Pig Latin, but I can’t wrap my brain around it. I’ll just have to wait until you decide to speak lowly English with me,” Bo said, handing Bud the tray of chocolate chip cookies.

  “Only one,” Chase said. Bud gave her a dirty look.

  “So what do you guys talk about, molecular biology?” Jasmine said tersely.

  “You’re as bad as Lacey. It’s not her fault she’s ahead of herself,” Chase said, contemplating the cookies and then remembering that according to her doctor lower caloric intake was as essential as exercise in staving off the ten pounds that lurked around the corner.

  “Tsiega togib,” Bud said.

  “Your vocabulary is getting quite advanced. It’s just about time, isn’t it?” Alma said, putting her arm around Bud, who gave a
deprecating shrug.

  “What did she say?” Jasmine inquired.

  Delia, who had jotted down the syllables on her notebook and translated them, said, “I don’t think you’re going to like it but realistically speaking it’s true.”

  “What!” Jasmine demanded.

  “She called you an ageist bigot,” Alma said, taking a cookie and handing it to Chase. “We’ll go for a walk around the park when we finish up here.”

  Chase nodded and took the cookie. No one had yet noticed her concern about calories except Alma, who like herself didn’t want to squander all the time she’d spent accumulating knowledge to have it wasted by a premature death due to unhealthy habits. Chase hoped she’d grow up to be just like Alma.

  “You know,” Bo said, putting his forefinger to his lips, “Your SUP group could prove very useful. So the basic mission of the group is to teach you all to be more socially tactful, correct?”

  Chase nodded. “It’s more like lying but social lying so as not to stick out in a group by saying something inappropriate—like when a woman at my book signing told me she was from Trinidad, Colorado, and I said isn’t that where they do all the sex changes.”

  “I can see where that was not a good thing to say,” Alma said.

  “So, it’s not like your particular social skills are necessarily being eradicated, rather they’re being subsumed when you’re successful,” he added. He sipped his coffee, meditatively.

  “I know where you’re going with this,” Delia said, her eyes gleaming.

  “You’ve lost me,” Jasmine said, absently handing Bud another cookie.

  Chase was about to object to that when it dawned on her what Bo was proposing. “Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

  “What do you mean? It’s perfect,” Delia said. “Your freaky buddies will ask the most inappropriate questions we’ll ever come across, hence we will be well-steeled for the real thing.”