Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  “That’s all right. I think it’ll work better if Meredith approaches people by herself. It makes her look friendlier.”

  “Yes, well, you might be opening quite a can with that tactic. Never know what some of these people might say. Just remember there’s a committee in Washington that has the last word on the final cut of this show. No point wasting money or my time, that is all of our time, listening to a lot of malcontents gripe.”

  “I know,” Austin flatly replied. “Still, no reason not to get some shots of people involved with their activities.” He addressed his camera operators, “Try and find some people having a good time. Keep the mics off, just look for happy faces.” He and his crew walked through the main room and disappeared into one of the television rooms. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Makepeace awkwardly said, “As always, Ms. St. Claire, it has been a pleasure.” When she made no reply, he stammered on with: “Yes, well, if I’m not needed here, I’ve got some work to finish up yet.”

  “Alrighty,” Meredith said with a smile, glad to be free of him. She turned her back to him and stepped further into the room. She was all but certain he would watch her walk away and that, with her back to him, his efforts to maintain a pleasant demeanor would cease. She suspected he would not only drop the pretense of friendliness, but would probably go so far as to flip her off. All this she instinctively knew, even without his reflection in the wall of black glass at the end of the room to confirm it. She expected this guffaw would also be caught on camera. Both cameras were in one of the television rooms, but both at this time were filming the main room through the plate-glass windows. As with Makepeace’s earlier blunders, this lapse of professionalism would not be used in the finished film. Still, there was some satisfaction in knowing Makepeace’s behavior at its worst was documented. Someday, somewhere, it might be useful. People lose their jobs for the smallest infractions these days, she reminded herself.

  She smiled at the few people who looked up from their games and made eye contact with her. Most, however, remained focused on the cards and board games. Here as elsewhere in the park, there was a noticeable lack of electronic devices. With the exception of the pinball games, nothing seemed to require electricity, or even batteries. Nothing in sight could be used or modified to allow communication. Meredith suspected that, after watching her and Makepeace make nine entrances into the hall, the novelty of a faded television star in their midst had worn off.

  “Oh, no!” a woman in a collection of three said.

  “Oh, yes,” another woman at the table said as she pulled the final trick of the game towards her. She added these cards to the sizeable pile she had already collected. She fanned the collection out, revealing several red cards. Meredith surmised that they were playing Hearts and that this woman with the red cards had just “shot the moon.”

  The women appeared to be in their late sixties to mid-seventies. One of the women who had lost slammed her open hands on the table before looking up at Meredith.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. “Do you know how to play Hearts?”

  The others smiled invitingly and Meredith readily took the open chair at the table. A handbag, a book, and a plastic cup of what appeared to be iced tea were snatched away to make table space before her.

  “I’m Meredith.” The introduction seemed appropriate. If she were to take it for granted that they knew who she was, she might have come across as arrogant. It was the polite way to present herself, even though most everyone in the hall had given some attention to the spectacle she and Makepeace had created with their multiple entrances. Austin had said her name through his megaphone a couple of times when he beseeched the game players to hold down their merriment. “It’s terrific that you appear to be having a good time,” Austin had said. “But you mustn’t sound like it. If you could lose the enthusiasm by roughly fifty percent, that would be good.”

  “Yes, dear, we know,” the woman said. “This is Gloria and Marce. They’re my dearest friends here at Faulty Park,” she seemed to hesitate at her own words, “excuse me, that’s a little joke of ours. I meant to say Fallow Park. They’re not a couple,” she added with the rapid delivery of a machine gun, apparently concerned that she had given the wrong impression of the women.

  “And this, Ms. St. Claire,” Marce said of the woman who had assumed the hostess duties, “this is Ardis Skaar, the First Lady of Fallow Park.”

  “Let’s not get into all that.” Ardis’ embarrassment seemed authentic; she looked down and concentrated on shuffling the cards. Without making eye contact with Meredith, she said, “You mustn’t pay them any mind.”

  But Meredith’s interest was piqued by the feminine, silver-haired woman who, she noted, wore pearls and make-up on a Thursday morning to play cards. “What does that mean, ‘the First Lady of Fallow Park’?”

  Ardis shook her head and said, “Now you’re encouraging them. Watch it or they’ll just talk your ears off.” At last she looked up to meet Meredith’s questioning gaze. “It’s a term of their own invention. They make it all sound more important than it is.” She shook her head at her companions. “Now you just knock it off, girls.”

  “Ardis was the very first resident of Fallow Park,” Marce explained, ignoring her friend’s directive.

  “You should interview her for your little show!” Gloria, speaking for the first time, chimed in. In contrast to Ardis, she and Marce wore jeans and sweatshirts. “Her story is interesting! Don’t be so selfish, Ardis. The public will want to know about you. I just can’t understand why you don’t see your obligation to tell it all to the world. This could be your chance for immortality. This is television, for heaven’s sake. Talk to her Meredith,” Gloria implored, “she might listen to you.”

  “Really? It does seem like the first citizen of the park would have a unique perspective. I’m surprised they didn’t approach you for an interview. Would you like to be on the show?”

  “Oh, no!” Ardis said with certainty, finality even. “The last thing I want is to be on television. What a nuisance. And how embarrassing if anyone back home should see it. One thing I will not do is seek the limelight. And I told them that, too.”

  “You’ve been on camera for the last hour or more,” Meredith pointed out.

  “A crowd scene,” Ardis replied. “That’s different. No questions, no controversies. I don’t think my kids would be hassled or inconvenienced by that. It might be fun for my grandchildren to see their grandmother on TV—just an extra in the crowd, behaving herself.”

  “Sadly, Ardis has become publicity shy in her later years,” Marce explained.

  “It’s unfortunate,” Gloria echoed, “because the Ardis Skaar story has become something of a classic. She’s kind of a legend to historians. There was a prize-winning photo on the cover of The New York Times of her walking through the front gate.”

  “And her family walking alongside her, to say goodbye,” Marce added.

  “Stop carrying on so,” Ardis complained. “You’re giving me much too much credit for an ordinary life and a moment of fame—and not real fame. It was just happenstance. I was just in a certain place at a certain time, and someone cast a light on me. That’s all.” She continued to shuffle the cards, oblivious to the steady gazes of the three other women at the table.

  “Well then, apart from the show,” Meredith pressed, “and just between us, you’d be willing to talk?”

  Ardis tapped the deck in front of her, indicating that Meredith should cut it.

  “Sure, why not?” She dealt the pack of cards until each of them had thirteen cards before them. Ardis shared her narrative while methodically sorting her cards into suits and, upon realizing she held the two of clubs, putting the game into motion by slapping it down in the center of the table.

  “It was following a routine surgery—a carpal tunnel release procedure—that I was informed by my surgeon that I am a lesbian. Mind you, it didn’t come as a huge shock, of course. I’ve never been afraid to talk to myself, s
o I’ve always understood who I am. I had used the word before, said it right out loud when no one was around. And I knew when I went to the hospital that such a test might be performed—and what the results could be. They ran those tests pretty routinely, whenever they could get ahold of your blood. You know what I’m talking about, right? It probably isn’t as bad as it used to be, but anyone over forty is old enough to remember those stories cropping up all the time—until they became so routine they stopped being interesting. I suppose it’s all ancient history. The general population has been screened by now.”

  “Yes,” Meredith told her, “that’s all in the past now. Today everyone is routinely tested—before birth—so you don’t hear about the horror stories of people faced with the results when they try to donate blood or get into an accident and need a transfusion.”

  “If the hysteria has died down, I’m glad,” Ardis said. “We all became familiar with the stories of people seeking treatment for an ulcer or appendicitis who were then exposed as gay and found themselves going from the hospital directly to one of the parks. All that started just after my era, but it’s all a long time ago now. I was one of the first—just minutes before the parks opened. Anyway, everyone knew blood was tested and if you were gay that information was going directly into your medical records and, depending on where you lived, would probably be reported to the state. Now, I’ve always been attracted to women, so when my doctor told me that he had run such a test and what the results were, I thought: ‘Well, here it is.’” She smiled over her fanned-out cards. “My husband took it badly, though.”

  Meredith played poorly, taking most of the tricks, as she was unable to place much focus on the game. Too much of her attention was claimed by the mature woman’s tale. She went through the motions of participating in the game, smiling with embarrassment each time a new hand was added to the pile in front of her. She wished she had a note pad as she listed to Ardis’ story unfold over the card table.

  Ardis was born in North Dakota and boasted that she could count on one hand the number of times she had been out of the Midwest. At twenty-two, she married her high school sweetheart, the only man she had ever dated. Both came from conservative, Lutheran families with definite ideas about how people should live their lives. Ardis and her husband had four children. Ardis worked part-time as a nurse’s assistant before the children were school age, but later returned to full-time work. Her husband, Hank, owned a couple of businesses that failed; out of necessity he went to work for his brother selling camping and hunting supplies. Theirs was, she stated, a traditional lifestyle with, she seemed to say with pride, no more than the usual setbacks.

  “But understand,” Ardis emphasized, “that was exactly the way I wanted to live my life. I always wanted to be a mom, an old-fashioned, chauffeur the kids where they need to be, dinner every night at a predictable hour, did-you-finish-your-homework-young-man, kind of mother. I loved raising my kids. I was awfully good at it, too.”

  Ardis ceased her narrative and scanned Meredith’s face with what Meredith read to be displeasure. The wizened looking woman shook her head at her. “No!” she said. “Stop right there. I know what you’re thinking; I see it in your eyes.” Meredith maintained eye contact with the woman after she said this. What Ardis saw in her eyes Meredith could not guess. As interested as she was in the woman’s history, Meredith consciously kept her expression neutral. She held a steady gaze with Ardis and held it until the woman blinked or looked away. Meredith was certain Ardis could not have read anything in her eyes and she intended to continue meeting her with the same open, but blank, stare she had fixed on her from the start. If Ardis was reading something negative or judgmental in Meredith’s demeanor or look, it was of her own making and Meredith was determined to make her realize this. Undoubtedly Ardis had encountered many scolding or disapproving types who believed, maybe even openly denounced, her life choices, but Meredith wanted her to understand that she was not such a person. When Ardis finally lost this stare-down, she looked at her cards but continued in the same vein. “You’re thinking that a lesbian of my generation—before everything became so political and the climate so unhealthy—could have come out and had all the things I just described. But that misses the point. I genuinely loved my husband. We built the life together that I always planned for. No, it wasn’t fashionable to live such a ‘repressed’ life. Back then, we had role models encouraging us to come out. But I wanted a traditional life. I wanted a husband.”

  Marce and Gloria jumped up abruptly at this point. Meredith wondered if they were offended by Ardis’ confession.

  “What?” Ardis asked.

  “Nearly two-o’clock,” Marce said.

  Was it really two? Meredith thought. Just how long had it taken to film Makepeace’s entrances? She and Bill had dutifully presented themselves at ten-thirty. She consulted her wrist watch for confirmation. Indeed, it did appear the afternoon was slipping away. Splendid, she added. Possibly dragging out this leisure center visit would prevent the visit to the mystery book club (high on Austin’s list because it showcased a nearly free pastime—the books were donated or were borrowed from the library—a sunk cost).

  “Oh, yes, have a nice lunch,” Ardis told them.

  Ardis turned to Meredith to explain: “They’re on the eight-two-eight schedule.”

  “The what?”

  “Eight-two-eight. I’m on the six-noon-six, myself. I’ve already eaten. What was I saying? Oh yes, you have to understand my background. My parents were very involved in the church. My uncle was a pastor. While it’s true coming out would have allowed me to live a life that would have suited me better ‘biologically’,” she crisply pronounced all six syllables of this word, “it wouldn’t necessarily have made me a happier person. I wasn’t interested in separating myself from my friends, the community, the church—these were the biggest parts of my life. I wasn’t interested in being gossiped or whispered about. I didn’t want to be the first lesbian in my town’s church. I didn’t want the long, difficult arguments with my parents and siblings, trying to bring them to a point of tolerance or acceptance. Call me a coward; I suppose it fits. But wasn’t I entitled to be one if I chose to be? Wasn’t that my business and my business alone? I never set out to be a role model for young women—or anyone else. I’ve always believed a person’s ‘orientation’,” she pronounced this word in a different, slightly clinical voice, “that is, their natural sexual identity, is something the individual can’t control. You are what you are—the same as your eye color or height. But how a person chooses to live his or her life is exactly that: a choice. If I wanted to live as a straight woman and I stuck to that plan—as I would have but for the external forces that brought me here—and if I never strayed, always did what was required to satisfy my commitments as a wife, and as the person I held myself out to be—who was I hurting but myself?”

  Meredith maintained her neutral stare, but hoped for further elaboration.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ardis continued, “I was never an advocate for those ridiculous programs that tried to turn gay people straight. One of the few decent things that resulted from the isolation of the gene was the death knoll it sounded for those weird, misguided groups. I’m only saying that I created a life for myself that suited me. Just me. Most lesbians couldn’t have tolerated the way I lived. I, however, thrived. I wouldn’t expect anyone else to be happy with my life. Nor did I ever suggest that any other gay person should live my life. But it suited me; I was content—more than that, I felt I was myself. And my husband,” Ardis paused suddenly. She cleared her throat and appeared to be collecting herself. “Well, I’m not going to say it was the most passionate relationship. I married my best friend. We started out where most couples end up—if they’re lucky. In that respect it was a most successful marriage. And I take great pride in the relationship. He’s still the best friend I’ve got.” She stated in a confidential tone: “He makes a great effort to stay in contact. After the marriage was invali
dated, I encouraged him to move on. I told him to remarry—and am I ever glad he did. His new wife, I understand, is a wonderful person. Tell me something,” she continued in the same tone, as though it were a logical progression, “do you play two-handed bridge?”

  “I’m sorry,” Meredith answered. “I don’t even know how to play four-handed bridge.”

  “Pity,” her companion told her. “I’ve played it since my early twenties. A thinking person’s game. You must always have your wits about you—and a certain amount of guts.”

  “You’re talking about more than just a card game, aren’t you?” Meredith ventured.

  “Nope,” Ardis said as plainly as any vague question might be dismissed. She added, perhaps to show to Meredith that she understood the question, “I don’t deal in analogies. I think I’m too concrete for that.” Apparently, as an afterthought, she added, “Did you say just a card game? Bridge is anything but a rank-and-file game. Many men and women have devoted themselves to it. It has great historical and cultural significance.” She cut herself off at this. She looked up at Meredith after a moment. “Am I talking too much about bridge?”

  “How did you earn the distinction of being Fallow Park’s first citizen?”

  “Oh, that.” Ardis smiled. She resumed her absent-minded shuffling of the cards as she spoke. Meredith suspected Ardis liked to keep busy at all times. There was something fidgety and bird-like about her. It was distracting, as was her scanning and vigilance. She continuously looked to the left and right as though concerned that anyone might be listening, or perhaps lying in wait to steal her cards. “It’s really a silly distinction. There were ten, almost eleven thousand of us who came through those front gates that day.”

  “You were at the front of the line?”

  “Not literally,” she explained as she began slapping the cards down in seven rows. “I have to backtrack. I was approached. When I made the decision to live here—because it was a decision back in those days—my paperwork was processed first. You see, I was in prison at the time.”