Ellen rang the tiny bell that each panelist had been given to indicate that they desired the floor. Delia looked over, perturbed. “Yes?” she inquired, giving Ellen the stink eye.
“I agree with the audience member that coming-out stories are important,” Ellen said.
“You would. You write them,” Delia said.
Isabel sighed. “I think you’re going to need to be a little more forceful.”
“You might have to jump in here,” Chase suggested. “Like how many times those kinds of books are checked out or something.”
“I don’t have those kind of statistics,” Isabel whispered.
“Make something up, just say ‘a lot,’” Chase said.
Ellen’s face got red. “That’s because I think they help people come to terms with difficult situations so that coming-out lesbians don’t feel so alone and disconnected.”
“They aren’t alone. They have us,” Delia snapped back.
“Not if you live in the middle of nowhere,” someone chimed in.
“Move to a big city then,” Delia retorted.
Isabel rang her bell but didn’t wait for Delia. “As a librarian, I have intimate knowledge of the kind of books that people check out. A lot of coming-out books—including Ellen’s—are very popular.”
“Good one,” Chase said and clapped her hands, which seemed to enthuse some of the coming-out people who also clapped.
Donna piped in on Chase’s ear bug. “That was good. We’ve got to get Delia to shut up and sit down. Get Jasmine going, Lacey thinks it will help.”
Chase felt kind of silly but rang her bell. “And I think that writers like Jasmine Ellis are also good examples of positive role models for well-established lesbians who are already comfortable with their sexuality—her books are the next logical stepping stone for lesbian readers, even those who don’t want to live in big cities.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said. “As a relatively new member of the lesbian community, I commend my fellow panelists for their previous work and commiserate with them. We have won hard victories in getting our works published so that lesbian lives are more visible.”
“Wow, that was impressive,” Ellen whispered.
Jasmine continued. “So turn off your television, buy a book and read it to your lover while you’re between the sheets.” Jasmine blushed at the subsequent applause, the most fervent being from Lacey.
“Which is where erotica comes in,” Delia said, taking the floor again.
“Ugh,” Chase said.
“It’s not like I can bring the library into it this time. We don’t stock it,” Isabel said.
“Oh, I think Delia is going to get hers in just a minute,” Chase said, cocking her head in the direction of a woman dressed like she’d just come from the capital building.
“Haven’t we seen her before?” Isabel asked.
“She’s the lesbian mother of twin girls. We saw her at the PTO meeting that we all got thrown out of,” Chase said.
“I don’t think the lesbian community is the right place for erotica, which is really just a pretext for pornography,” the woman said.
“What!” Delia said.
“I’ve read Jasmine’s and Chase Banter’s novels and they deal with the sex issue in a tasteful fashion. It’s there, but it certainly doesn’t need to be explained in all its details. We all know what goes where.”
“Well, I bet you haven’t read mine,” Delia taunted.
“As a matter of fact, I have. I don’t make decisions lightly or without the facts. Your stories and your website is simply women-oriented pornography,” the woman said.
Some of the women in the audience clapped.
Jasmine leaned over. “Delia is really getting tiresome. This is a forum, not a battleground.”
“I think her underpants are all twisted up in that char-tart outfit of hers,” Chase said.
There was a strong voice from the back of the room. “I think the erotica issue is a personal choice—a moot point that no amount of arguing will ever resolve. Let’s get back to the importance of lesbian writing and its need for financial support. We nearly lost one of our writers to the mainstream because of the lack of support by the reading public. I’m speaking of Chase Banter.”
“Oh, shit!” Chase said.
“What?” Jasmine said.
“It’s the Pink Mafia,” Chase said, glancing at the back row of seats, which was filled with female versions of the Sopranos—suits, dark glasses and short hairdos.
“We are going to pass out order forms with the latest lesbian titles as well as some old favorites. Most of you are probably not aware of the fact that lesbian publishers need your financial support—which means purchasing books directly from them as opposed to the larger distributors. This keeps the money in the family so to speak. The writers get more money and the publishers remain viable. Upon the purchase of a book and receipt of your e-mail address we will put you on the mailing list so you can keep abreast of upcoming releases. My associates will now pass out the forms and pens so you can make your choices during the forum.”
“Can they do that?” Isabel said.
“They got me to write another lesbian novel when I had no intention of doing so,” Chase said. They definitely need some public relations help, Chase thought. Could that speech be anymore stilted?
The question-and-answer session went a lot smoother once the saner people of the audience got a chance to speak up, which all the panelists found a relief excepting Delia who sat pouting and emanating hostile vibes. Graciela brought her a Red Bull and patted her shoulder as if to say, they just don’t understand your genius. Every once in a while Donna would beep in and tell Chase she was doing fine and also that she looked very photogenic for the camera. Okay, so maybe the suit was a good idea—it might give her some much sought-after credibility, especially with Lily who had insisted that she get a copy of the interviews so the SUP group could analyze them. “Do I have to be there?” Chase had asked.
“Of course. This concerns you most,” Lily had replied.
As the panel drew to a close Chase felt an overwhelming sense of relief pass over her. It was done, the thing was done. People handed in their order sheets to the Pink Mafia. The head honcho lady, who Donna had discovered was named Max, of all things, came up to Chase and shook her hand. She had a grip like a truck driver.
“I wanted to thank you for picking up the torch and guiding our people.”
Not knowing what else to say Chase replied, “Uh, it was no problem.”
“I think you may have struggled with your inner lesbian, in fact, I’ve seen it before. I see with some gentle prodding you’ve come back. On the part of the Pink Mafia I’d like to present you with this plaque.”
“A plaque?”
Gitana and Bud had nestled up close to her by this time. “Oh, honey, look it’s the official Order of the Vulva.”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thank you so much.”
“Just keep up the good work.” Max trundled off.
“Vulva?” Bud said.
“How did you know that?” Chase said, staring down at the plaque in confusion.
“Donna told me,” Gitana said.
“Thank goodness or I would have been at a total loss.”
“She figured as much. I think you better give her a raise,” Gitana said, taking Chase’s hand.
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve done my civic duty. I want to go home, sit on the deck and have a nice cold beer,” Chase said, thinking that with only two weeks left in August the summer was quickly coming to a close and days sitting outside would be finite. Another thought gripped her heart—that of Bud going to school in a mere week.
Bud reached up for the plaque.
“You want it?”
Bud nodded.
“Okay. I now officially award it to you.”
Chapter Twenty—Aspiration
What shall I do to be forever known,
And make the age to come my own?—Cowle
y
“Do you really think you’re going to be able to handle this?”
Chase looked over at her only child, a mere babe in arms, and tried not to cry. “I don’t know.”
“We’re not off to a good start here,” Bud said as she gazed out the car window at all the other parents and children saying their goodbyes as the first day of the fall term began—even though, as Chase had repeatedly stated, the third week in August was not fall. She couldn’t believe that summer had zipped by without her knowledge. June had seen the flowering of the jewel garden. July was hot, the tomatoes had ripened. In August Addison had strep and she and Bud had gotten to “C” in the OED. Chase had survived the panel and now school had started.
Chase gripped the wheel of the Mini Cooper with white knuckles.
“They’re not going to let us sit here all day and you don’t want me to be late for my first day of school. It’ll make a bad impression and you know how hard Donna has worked to get me in here and all the time you made me study when I should have been enjoying the last summer before my intellectual incarceration,” Bud said.
“Oh, great. Thanks a lot. You’re making this so much easier by guilt-tripping me.” Chase stared out dolefully at the small children and their parents, several of whom appeared to be suffering the same anxiety she was. “I’m not alone, look at that display of empty-nest syndrome,” Chase said as she pointed to a particularly messy scene of tears and clutching.
“If you do that to me, I will never speak to you again ever,” Bud said, a new authority in her voice. She put her hand on the door handle. “I’m going to get out now and you may hand me my backpack. Then we will shake hands and I will go up the stairs, turn around, wave and then go inside. Do you understand?”
“I don’t even get a hug?”
“You know as well as I that public displays of affection are not part of our family credo.” Bud looked at her sternly. “So don’t even try it.”
Chase took a deep breath and summoned up the small reserve of stoicism that she housed for occasions such as this. “Let’s get this party started.”
“That’s better.” Bud exited the car.
Chase pulled her backpack from the car and came around. She bit her lip, which was quivering as she handed the backpack to Bud.
“It’s going to be fine. You will pick me up in six and a half hours. I think we can be apart that long.” Bud stuck out her hand. “Now wish me well.”
“Are you sure you have everything?” Chase asked as she shook Bud’s hand.
“Of course I have everything. You made me check it ten times last night and you had Donna verify it,” Bud said crossly.
“That’s right.”
Just then a dark-haired woman impeccably dressed in a rust cashmere sweater and earth brown trousers, a perfect example of fall colors as Stella would say, came up to them.
“Aren’t you Chase Banter, the writer, the lesbian writer?” Before Chase could answer, the woman said, “I saw you on the web at that panelist site. I thought you were spectacular. My name is Evelyn Carter.” She stuck out her hand.
Chase suddenly felt woefully underdressed in her usual attire of khaki shorts and a T-shirt that she got at Thrift Town for a dollar-fifty that had “Have you had your shellfish today?” emblazoned on the front of it. Bud was dressed nicely in her tan trousers and blue blazer with white trainers. She’d been so concerned with getting Bud ready, she realized, that she’d paid little attention to her own accoutrements. Well, she thought, I certainly don’t resemble the woman in the video anymore.
“And this must be Bud,” Evelyn said, patting Bud on the head.
Bud glared at her impolitely but was distracted by Evelyn’s little girl, who whispered something in Bud’s ear that made her giggle. Chase was trying to keep track of what Evelyn was saying about lesbian parenting and how they, the PLUs (“You know, People Like Us”), have to stick together and her calling over of three of the other mothers (“Friends of mine that are also gay parents, you simply must meet them”) that she lost Bud in the process. She looked down one minute at Bud chatting amiably with Evelyn’s daughter and the next minute the two of them were holding hands and running up the stairs to the school.
“Bud, wait!” Chase called out.
Bud looked back and waved.
Evelyn took Chase’s arm and said, “Oh, they’ll be fine. Collins is a very capable child. Now, I want you to meet Mary Elizabeth Phillips and her partner Anne Clemens. They have two boys in the second grade.”
Chase smiled at the two women, who appeared to have the same haircut, shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the same variation of the same outfit, Capri pants and polo shirts.
“And this is Essie Marshall. She’s a single parent, but looking,” Evelyn said brightly.
Chase shook Essie’s hand and tried to smile sympathetically as she could tell Essie didn’t like her moniker of single-parent-but-looking. “What grade is your child in?” Chase thought this had to be a socially acceptable question in suburban mother-land.
At this Essie brightened. “My little girl, Summer, is just starting this year. Maybe she could meet your daughter. Evelyn says they’re in the same grade. Summer is kind of shy.”
“Oh, look, Collins has already got her. I told her to keep an eye out for Summer,” Evelyn said, pointing. “Don’t you two worry. Collins will take care of Bud and Summer. She’s very congenial and well-mannered.”
As she said this, Chase saw Collins step on the spanking white new trainers of a small boy who had pulled on Summer’s long braid. Oh, yes, Chase thought, Collins would be a very useful ally.
“Does Collins like ice cream?” Chase asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Absolutely loves the stuff. Her favorite place to go is the Cold Stone Creamery in the Uptown and her favorite flavor is blueberry cream cheese.”
“I’ll remember that. Perhaps we can all go for ice cream one day soon,” Chase said. She could hardly believe she was saying it, but in the protection of their young, mothers were known to go to extreme measures.
“You know, that brings me to my next topic. Now I was hoping we could get some of the gay mothers or fathers, whichever, and have a coffee klatch,” Evelyn said.
Mary Elizabeth and Anne were very enthusiastic about this idea. Essie didn’t look so sure.
Chase was clueless. “What’s a coffee klatch?” She wasn’t even certain what the word “klatch” meant.
“We all get together, at a convenient time for everyone, of course, and talk about our issues and, well, drink coffee,” Evelyn said. “Now I know Mary E. and Anne, being interior designers, have a very flexible schedule, and Essie, well, now what would we call what you do?”
“I’m an e-trader,” she said, and then noting the look of noncomprehension on everyone’s face said, “I create virtual portfolios for people who then decide whether it works for them and they purchase the plan if they like it.”
“And I must say it certainly pays well. You should see her house,” Evelyn said. “Chase, as we all know, sets her own schedule, I’m sure, so I don’t see why Friday mornings wouldn’t be a perfect time for the klatch to meet. We drop the kids off and head to Starbucks and yak away. Agreed?”
Before anyone had a chance to respond, the traffic guard, a portly but very serious woman dressed in brown and orange came over. “Ladies, you need to get a move on. This is a drop-off zone only and as you can see it’s getting congested.”
“Ta ta, everyone,” Evelyn said.
As Mary E. and Anne left, Essie touched Chase’s arm. “I’ll go if you do,” she said quietly.
“Ditto. See you tomorrow,” Chase said.
She made it three blocks from the school before she parked the car and ran back. She snuck in one of the side doors and made for Bud’s classroom, which she knew by heart as she and Bud had tramped all over the school on numerous reconnoitering missions so that Bud would not get lost or head into enemy territory, which was most certainly
any grade above hers. They had also rehearsed various escape routes if she were caught by evildoers. Gitana thought this was overkill until Donna, who did agree with Chase on this point, had gotten hold of the architectural plans for the building. “I mean, what if there’s a fire?” Donna had said.
“Or a bully,” Chase added.
“She’ll need to know her way around,” Donna said.
“I don’t think that includes air shafts and electrical closets,” Gitana replied.
“You can never be too informed,” Donna said as she and Chase pored over the documents.
Chase now hid in the small alcove between the banks of lockers and waited for Bud, who she had ascertained was not yet in her classroom. She’s probably being harassed by the school thugs already, her lunch money stolen, maybe even her shoes, Chase thought in horror, until she remembered that she’d written Bud’s name and address inside her trainers in permanent marker and that Bud was bringing her lunch because of her dietary proclivities. Instead, Bud came down the hall with Summer and Collins, chatting away and looking quite at ease.
“Bud, come here,” Chase hissed from her hiding spot.
Bud looked around.
“Over here,” Chase whispered, although over the hubbub it wasn’t necessary—or effective. The five-minute bell rang its warning.
Collins glanced over and spotted Chase. “Bud, your mom wants you.” She pointed at Chase. “We’ll save you a seat,” she said.
Bud quickly came over. “What is it?” She looked worried.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you,” Chase said, kneeling down so she was eye to eye with Bud.
“Oh. I love you too.”
“Okay,” Chase said, getting up.
“I’d better go,” Bud said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder and in the direction of the classroom. She suddenly hugged Chase’s thigh and then ran into the room.
That was our first real goodbye, Chase thought. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket and she slipped outside to answer it.
“You’re standing outside her classroom, aren’t you?” Gitana said.
“How did you know?” Chase said, glancing over the immaculate grounds of the school with its stately oaks and manicured lawns. At first the beauty soothed her and then she thought about how much water it took to maintain such a look.
Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion Page 20
