Kiss & Tell

by Layce Gardner

  “Can I be Annie Oakley?” Allistair asked.

  Sheriff Jeb eyed her. “Can you shoot?”

  “Of course.”

  “Really?” Willy said.

  “Well, I’m really good on the Wii,” Allistair said.

  Sheriff Jeb stopped in front of a yellow Victorian house that had seen better days. And if it had seen better days in the 1840s that meant it was old even by old standards. Wait, Willy was confused. Was it built to look old and it was really brand-new? Or was it built a hundred years ago and looks old because it is old?

  “Who lives up there?” Allistair said, pointing at the turret.

  “Nobody. It’s hell in there. Can’t fit no furniture to speak of and it’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter,” Sheriff Jeb said. He shook his head in disgust.

  “We’ll take it,” Willy said. Allistair looked like a Bobble Head in her agreement.

  Sheriff Jeb crinkled his brow. “The landlady’s been trying to let that room for going on ten years now. Not since that lesbian writer rented it for a summer. She was writin’ one of them there hot steamy lesbian westerns. She was looking for authenticity and I think she got a little more than she bargained for.” He cocked his head. “Are you two lesbians?”

  “Well, of course. We’re nuns. Haven’t you read that pivotal work Lesbian Nuns?” Willy said.

  “No, but I read that western she wrote and I must say it got my nether regions a-stirring,” Sheriff Jeb said. He adjusted his chaps.

  Willy thought she saw his package twitch. “I don’t want to know,” she said, imagining a hamster with a little pink nose and whiskers.

  Sheriff Jeb led them up the wooden steps. They were barely on the porch when a woman kicked open the front door and cocked her sawed-off shotgun. She leveled the gun right at them. “Who the dickens are you?” The woman had a thick British accent. Not a Rex Harrison accent, but the Eliza Doolittle Cockney version.

  “What the fuck?” Willy said, jumping behind Sheriff Jeb. “Does everyone point a gun at you out here?”

  “Usually,” Sheriff Jeb said.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Jeb?” the lady said. Willy peered over Sheriff Jeb’s shoulder. The lady was dressed in a gauzy dress with a high collar and long puffy sleeves. The dress resembled an ancient wedding gown. It probably used to be white, but was yellowed with age. Her white hair fuzzed out of her bun like a dandelion.

  Sheriff Jeb took off his hat. “I brung you over a couple of new renters.”

  “Nuns?” the lady said, clicking the safety on her shotgun.

  “A pair of lesbian nuns,” Sheriff Jeb said.

  “Is that right?” the lady said, squinting an eye and giving Allistair the once-over.

  “We’re not real nuns,” Allistair said.

  “That’s what the parish priest said right before he ran off with the widow,” the lady said.

  “That he wasn’t a nun?” Allistair said.

  Willy shook her head. “You know for someone as smart as you are, you can be really stupid sometimes. No, what she meant was…”

  “I’m not stupid,” Allistair said. “I resent that.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Willy said.

  “Oh, for criminy’s sake. You two get in here. Good day, Jeb, I’ll take it from here,” the lady said.

  “All right. I’ll see you gals later,” Sheriff Jeb said. He lurched down the street in his weird sideways strut.

  “I’m Miss Havisham, by way of introduction. Jeb lacks civility on most occasions.”

  “You can say that again. I just met him and he’s already shot me twice,” Willy said.

  “If Jeb shot you, you deserved it.” Miss Havisham deposited the shotgun in an umbrella stand by the front door and pulled out a gold tipped cane. “You will find that I do not spare the rod around here,” she said, rapping her cane against the worn oak floor.

  “You wouldn’t hit us with that? Would you…Ma’am?” Allistair said.

  “You have been warned,” Miss Havisham said through puckered lips.

  “We were hoping we might rent the turret room,” Willy said, then added quickly, “Ma’am.”

  Miss Havisham eyed them. “Are you aware of its short comings?”

  “Sheriff Jeb told us. But we’d be willing to make do, Ma’am,” Allistair said.

  “Fair enough. Not tonight though. It needs a good cleaning. I’ll put you in the Bleak House Room. It’s been aired and the linens are fresh.”

  Miss Havisham turned and tapped her way up a flight of stairs. Willy and Allistair took that as their cue to follow.

  “So…you’re a Dickens fan?” Willy asked.

  “Charles Dickens was my third husband. A true genius, he was. I wanted to call this house 48 Doughty Street—after our London house, but Jeb wouldn’t have it. So I named the rooms instead.” She led them down a long narrow hallway and stopped before a plain wood door. “This is the one. Bleak House room.” She opened the door. “There’s a wash stand in the room and a pump out back. You have to empty your own chamber pot. Now, good day to you both,” Miss Havisham said, floating off in her white gown with her gold tipped cane tapping lightly back down the stairs.

  Willy looked at Allistair. She pointed at her temple and moved her index finger in little circles in the universal “she’s bat shit crazy” gesture.

  “I heard that!” Miss Havisham called out from downstairs.

  The Art Of Seduction

  “What the fuck?” Willy said as she batted a cobweb out of her face and hair and stepped into the bedroom.

  Allistair shut the door behind them. “This is aired out and clean? I’d hate to see a dirty room.”

  Allistair blinked until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was no light switch. Of course not. This was the Wild West, after all, and electric lights weren’t invented yet. The room was bathed in shadows, the only light bleeding dimly through the single window’s drawn shade. Dusty bric-a-brac and yellowed doilies were scattered everywhere. A bookcase held hard-back books and chipped figurines. There was one double bed covered with a well-worn quilt. A chaise lounge sat against the opposite wall. It was upholstered in a deep wine-colored velveteen fabric that was threadbare in several places.

  Allistair walked around the room, trailing one finger through the dust that had accumulated on every stick of furniture.

  “Dusty,” Allistair said.

  “Ya think?” Willy picked up a doily. “What the hell is this thing? And what purpose does it serve?”

  “It’s a doily. There is no purpose other than adding an air of hominess and beauty,” Allistair said.

  “It’s not working,” Willy said, tossing the doily back on the nightstand.

  Allistair stared at the one bed. She bit her lip. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that she was thinking about sharing the one and only bed with Willy.

  Willy squatted in front of the bookcase. “There’s nothing but Dickens novels in here.”

  “Oh? Did he write that many?” Allistair asked, opening the armoire. There were two nightgowns hanging on two pink satin pillow hangers. She took a nightgown off the hanger and shook it out.

  “He wrote fifteen novels all together, but she has multiple editions of each,” Willy said, pulling out Little Dorrit.

  “You’ve actually read Dickens?” Allistair said, fingering a small ceramic dish sitting on top of the dresser.

  “Some,” Willy said, blowing dust off the book’s cover.

  “Like what?” Allistair said, plopping down on the bed. She’d never known anyone who’d actually read Charles Dickens. The only Dickens she was familiar with was that scrooge movie. And she hadn’t even seen the original; she had seen the Bill Murray version, Scrooged.

  “In chronological order according to publication date: Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield, Hard Times, A Tale of Two Cities, and The Mystery of Edwin Drood, which was unfinished at the time of his death. I haven’t read Bleak House b
ut I did see the BBC movie. The other ones I was unaware of.” Willy said. “Well, except Little Dorrit, that was my own fault. I left my copy in the dentist’s office.” Willy yawned. “Here’s an interesting whatchamacallit. An anomaly, I think it’s called. Dickens died in 1870. But we’re here in the old west—like thirty years earlier or thereabouts and yet here are all of Charles Dickens’ books. He wrote most of his most famous novels starting in the 1850’s. How do you think the crazy landlady, Miss Havisham, gets that to work in her head? Maybe she has a time travel machine hidden somewhere?”

  Allistair was staring at the bed, lost in thought. Well, she wasn’t really thinking. Not so much anyway. She was imagining. Imagining what it would be like to be in that bed with Willy.

  “Are you listening to me? Allistair?”

  Allistair jerked her head to Willy and smiled quickly. “Sure, I’m listening. You were talking about the Dickens thing.”

  Willy stood and dusted her hands on the seat of her pants. “You know, I was holding the complete works of Dickens when we met.”

  “Really?”

  Willy nodded. “Yeah. This old lady who owned a bookstore threw it at me. It hit me in the head. I picked it up and took it with me to the restaurant.”

  “Maybe it was like an omen that we met,” Allistair said.

  Willy shrugged. “If you mean a scary omen like that Damien kid in The Omen, maybe.”

  Allistair was stung. Why was it every time she tried to play nice, Willy said something that hurt her feelings?

  Willy slipped off her habit. Clad only in the nun pants and a sports bra, she sat on the other side of the bed. She bounced up and down a few times then yawned. She looked over at Allistair. “There’s only one bed.”

  “So it seems.”

  “I’ll take the divan looking thing,” Willy offered. “If you can spare a blanket.”

  Allistair studied the divan. It was short. “You won’t fit,” she said.

  “So I’ll sleep in the fetal position,” Willy said. “I’m so tired it won’t bother me.”

  “No, we can both sleep in the bed. I won’t try any funny business,” Allistair said.

  “You try funny business?” Willy actually guffawed. “Yeah, I’d like to see that.”

  “I’m capable of seduction,” Allistair said, picking up the nightgown. “Now, turn around while I get undressed.”

  Willy flopped onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. “Go ahead. I won’t peek.”

  Allistair looked at Willy’s back. Especially her butt. Willy had a super nice butt—even in nun pants. It was pert and round—like she walked uphill a lot. Her shoulders were broad and muscular, but not in a Hulk Hogan kind of way—more like an Olympic swimmer kind of way. Her hair was thick and naturally highlighted—probably from walking up all those hills in bright sunshine.

  Allistair felt the tinges of something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was a sexual stirring in her down-there. Allistair undressed, even peeling off her Maxi Spanx. And once she was naked, she threw back the covers on the bed and crawled in beside Willy. She felt daring and bold. Not to mention excited.

  “Willy?” Allistair whispered. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. You know, about us making love. And I’ve decided that we should. Give it a try. We could find out if it works. You know, us together. What do you think?”

  When there was no answer, Allistair picked up Willy’s hand and placed it on her boob.

  Willy’s hand didn’t move. It just laid there on her boob like a limp lox on a bagel.

  “Willy?”

  A loud snore was Willy’s only answer.

  Sighing, Allistair removed Willy’s hand, got out of bed, and put on the nightgown and Maxi Spanx. So much for the art of seduction.

  Ask Allie

  The following is an excerpt from the nationally syndicated column Ask Allie.

  Dear Ask Allie,

  My lesbian lover won’t have sex with me. I have tried everything. But she says our relationship has evolved past the sex part. She says true love is about a meeting of the souls, not a meeting of the flesh. I want to meet her soul, but I’d also like to have sex. Is there something wrong with me?

  Sincerely,

  Dead in Bed

  Dear Dead in Bed,

  There is nothing wrong with you. It is normal to want to have sex with the person you love. Have you tried to seduce your lady? Perhaps her lady parts fell asleep and just need a wake-up call. The art of seduction should be required learning for every woman.

  Allow me share a few tips:

  Take her out to a romantic candlelit dinner.

  Buy her flowers and chocolate.

  Scatter rose petals in a path to the bed. (Be careful. Rose petals can be slippery.)

  Wear suggestive clothing.

  Perfume your bed linens with a lavender spray.

  Talk in a soft baby voice.

  Tickle the inside of her arms.

  Breathe in her ear.

  Light candles and incense.

  Play a Nina Simone album.

  Watch the movie Desert Hearts.

  These “tricks of the trade” are bound to work. You’re welcome.

  By the way, coconut oil is a natural lubricant. It also makes your lover taste finger-licking good!

  Sincerely,

  Allie

  P.S. Have you been invited to a potluck and don’t know what to take? Here’s recipe that’s sure to help you make friends and influence people.

  Heavenly Hash

  1 box of black cherry Jell-O

  1 tub of Cool Whip

  1 small package of pecans

  Shredded coconut

  1 small jar of maraschino cherries

  Make Jell-O as per instructions on the box. Let sit overnight in fridge until well set.

  Mix Jell-O with Cool Whip. Fold, do not stir. You don’t want the Jell-O to run.

  Cut cherries into small pieces.

  Add cherries, coconut (to taste) and pecans to Jell-O mixture.

  Refrigerate until served.

  Yum, yum!

  Breakfast with Charles

  “Is this what I think it is?” Allistair said, pointing at her waffle with her fork. She sat in the dining room across the table from Willy. They had slept a total of four hours. Which meant that it was noonish. That was just Willy’s best guess. It was impossible to tell the correct time in this house of Dickens because all the clocks were stopped at exactly 8:40 just like in the original Satis House belonging to Miss Havisham. That was the exact time she had found out her lover had left her.

  “Yes, that would be a waffle in the shape of the profile of our illustrious Charles Dickens.” Willy bit off his nose and chewed.

  “Okkkaaaaay,” Allistair said, nibbling on his beard. Her eyes darted this way and that. She was obviously very uncomfortable. The source of her discomfort seemed to be the centerpiece of the dining table. It was a tall wedding cake, ornately decorated. However, it was old and petrified. It listed to the side like the Tower of Pisa. Even mice had long ago stopped nibbling on it. Probably because they broke a few teeth whenever they tried.

  Nellie brought out a pot of coffee to refill their cups. Nellie was the woman who had woken them by rapping on their door. Once they had put on their habits and come downstairs, she seated them at the table and brought them coffee and waffles. Nellie had done all this without uttering a single word. The only way they knew her name was because she wore a nametag.

  Nellie was tiny, weighing in at maybe eight-five pounds and standing 4’11”. She looked like Ruth Buzzi—complete with the hairnet.

  As Nellie refilled Allistair’s cup, Willy picked up her knife and clanked it against her plate. Nellie didn’t so much as flinch. Willy clanked a little louder. Nellie didn’t look at her.

  As Nellie turned to leave the dining room, Willy touched her arm. Nellie looked at her, raising her eyebrows in a questioning expression. Willy performed sign language and Nellie’s face lit up. The
y exchanged a rapid-fire set of elaborate hand signals. Nellie left the room with a big smile on her face.

  “She’s deaf?” Allistair said.

  “Yep,” Willy replied, polishing off her waffle. “Are you going to eat that?” she said, pointing her fork at Allistair’s plate.

  “I can’t eat a man’s head. It seems so barbaric.”

  “I thought you were having a little trouble with it. I asked Nellie to bring you some toast and jam.”

  “How do you know sign language?” Allistair asked, sipping her coffee.

  “I had a deaf girlfriend in high school. Can I have your waffle if you’re not going to eat it?”

  “Sure,” Allistair said, passing her the plate.

  “You have to admit Charles Dickens gives good head,” Willy joked.

  “Only you,” Allistair said with a giant roll of her eyes.

  Willy took the eye-rolling as a good sign. A few days ago, Allistair would’ve had a hernia over such a tasteless joke. Now it only warranted an eye-roll. Maybe in another couple of days Willy could actually thaw out Allistair’s funny bone and get her to laugh.

  Nellie came back through the swinging door with a plate of toast and a pot of marmalade. She set the plate down in front of Allistair.

  Allistair touched her fingers to her chin and lowered her hand, signing “thank you.” Nellie smiled.

  “You know sign language, too?” Willy asked.

  Allistair shook her head. “Not really. Just a few things like ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you.’”

  Miss Havisham entered the room, tapping her cane in front of her, and the bright mood died. Nellie scuttled back through the door with her head bowed and eyes averted.

  Boy, she sure knows how to clear a room, Willy thought.

  “You need to stop your dilly-dallying and get over to the costuming house,” Miss Havisham said, tapping her cane emphatically on the floor.