Frosting on the Cake

by Karin Kallmaker

  T.J. leaned in. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” Rett said, and she hiccuped.

  He sat down and offered his arms. Rett slid across the seat and put her head on his shoulder. “You sang beautifully.”

  “Thank you.” She knew he felt her shoulders shaking. “I don’t know how you kept it together.” His voice was unusually gruff. “I couldn’t have done it.”

  “Performer’s discipline, maybe. I don’t know. I kept thinking how Elton John sang for Princess Diana, without a tear or quaver.”

  “It’s more than that, I think. Papa told me he thought you were one of the strongest women he’d ever met.”

  Rett gasped. “He didn’t know me that well, then.” She’d been incredibly weak in her life, accepted bad love and bad advice. She turned her head into T.J.’s chest.

  “Or he knew you better than you know yourself. That was certainly true for me. It was never fun as a teenager to realize the Papa had my number, but I’m hoping I develop the knack with my own kids.”

  Rett knew T.J. was trying to turn her mind away from her grief, and she appreciated it. “How’s Angel?”

  “She’s fine. The second strongest woman in the world.” He squeezed her.

  “The Martinetta women are all strong,” Rett said. “Maybe it’s worn off on me.”

  The door opened again and Angel peered at Rett and T.J. “This looks sort of interesting.” Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but it didn’t look as if she’d been crying for a while.

  “We’re necking, go away,” T.J. said.

  Angel shrugged. “Okay.” She started to close the door.

  “Angel, wait.” Honestly, the teasing in this family was nonstop. “Get out, T.J.”

  He feigned heartbreak. “What am I, a piece of fruit you can cast aside?”

  “Yes, now get out. And thanks,” Rett added more seriously. She turned toward Angel for a peaceful kiss and cuddle.

  “I was catching up on the medical journals this morning. Chromosome twenty-one—they know the defective chain that determines Lou Gehrig’s now. They might even know how to fix it.”

  Too late. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  She sniffed and Rett proffered the tissue box. “This last week I thought about it so much that CTGA seemed tattooed on the backs of my eyelids.”

  CTGA were the genetic markers that made up a human being. Rett knew that Angel’s mind went far and deep into the vast universe of microscopic biology. It went places she could not follow; few could. Once that had intimidated her, but she was over it, long over it. “It wasn’t a waste. You know it’s inherited. You could still save a sister or brother’s life, a niece or a nephew.”

  She patted my knee. “Thank you for that. I’d forgotten.”

  They rested for a few minutes, heads together. Rett realized she was almost asleep—it was warm and cozy and she was exhausted—when Angel suddenly moved.

  “I’ll be asleep in another minute,” she said.

  “Me, too. Oh, don’t go.”

  Angel was already getting out of the car. “If I don’t start cleaning up, Mama will try to do it.”

  It was undeniable, and it made Rett clamber out of the car after Angel. They need not have stirred, as it turned out. Tia had organized clean-up crews. Even T.J.’s five-year-old was helping.

  Rett washed glasses until her fingers were prunes and kept thinking about Antonio’s gift of light. She had chosen the song because he had loved it, but she’d really sung today for Angelina and the rest of the clan. She hadn’t yet fully honored his memory. Washing dishes didn’t count.

  Family and forgiveness.

  She knew what she had to do. She’d been avoiding it for two years.

  It was early evening when she told Angel she had an errand. She’d never driven directly from the Martinetta place to the house where she grew up, but there was little chance of getting lost. Woton was a very small town.

  Left on South Road, right on Road 167. Third house on the right. The last house of the group, separated from the others by a narrow creek.

  The scraggly geraniums and unpruned roses should have been in bloom, but they looked almost dead in spite of this year’s early spring. The Grand Prix didn’t look as if it had been moved in a month. The oil slick underneath it had doubled.

  Just looking at it all depressed her. She made herself think about Antonio’s light. Family and forgiveness. Get out of the car, Rett.

  In the two years since she’d seen her mother their faces had grown even more alike. That brief sensation of looking in a mirror was unsettling. Knowing she was looking at her own face twenty years down the road was even more so.

  “So it’s you.” “It’s me, Mama.” The word had none of the feeling it held when she called Angelina that.

  Her mother stood back to let her in, and for once Rett was not immediately overwhelmed by cigarette smoke. The house was heavy with old smoke, of furniture permeated by the smell. The stench of unrinsed beer cans and bottles was as powerful as she remembered, but her stomach wasn’t churning like it had two years ago. The pain of that last meeting—their first in over twenty-three years—was still inside her.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Her mother settled into the deeply indented recliner. Rett noticed a collection of cough medicines and used tissues.

  “I wanted to see you again. I think I’ll always have resentment and problems with our past, but that doesn’t have to affect how today and tomorrow work out.”

  Her mother’s fingers twitched as if she wanted to light a cigarette. Rett had rarely seen her without a lit one between her fingers. “Bully for you.”

  Whatever might happen was all on her, Rett realized. It always had been. She couldn’t fix her mother and she had no illusions that her mother would ever change. “You’re the only blood family I have. We can go on being strangers, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s okay.”

  Her mother seemed to be considering that, but abruptly began to cough. When Rett realized the coughing fit wasn’t easing up right away, she went to the kitchen for water. Same glasses, same tap—the memories were harsh and yet they were home, too.

  As she left the kitchen a bright red notice caught her eye. During her starving student days at U of M she’d seen one or two final electric notices. Her mother had only two more days to pay or bye-bye lights.

  Her mother mumbled a thank-you for the water. “I gave up smokes and have had nothing but colds all winter. Couldn’t even work this last month.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Yeah. He said my lungs are clearing themselves and I’ll probably be susceptible to this kind of thing for the rest of my life.”

  “You were right to quit. Why did you?”

  “Couldn’t afford them anymore. It was smoke or eat.” Her mother finished the water and nudged the glass into the chaos on the little table next to the recliner. “No matter what you think of me, I don’t have that many vices. Men, smoking and beer. Men gave me up. I gave up the smokes. Now all I have is beer.”

  “As vices go, beer’s a virtue.”

  Her mother laughed and started to cough again, but it didn’t last as long as the first attack had. “Don’t go making me laugh again. It hurts too much.”

  “I’ll try to avoid it,” Rett said drily.

  “What are we working at, then?”

  “Not hating each other.”

  “I never hated you.”

  “I know that now. You just didn’t like me much.”

  Her mother nodded slightly. “I’ll admit to that. It was a long time ago and all I remember is being angry most of the time.”

  “I was angry for a long time. I’m not anymore.” Rett could not forget her mother’s admission, two years ago, that she’d been too afraid to have an abortion. She’d had her entire life to accept that her mother had no idea who her father was. Bitterness remained, but anger was gone. Family and forgiveness. She gave me life, Rett reminded herself. She might not have lo
ved me, but she fed me and clothed me until I could do it myself.

  After a while her mother said, “You’ve made a success of yourself, then.”

  Rett nodded. “Maybe I’m not Barbra Streisand, but I’m a long way from nobody.” Nobody had been her mother’s career prediction for Rett’s singing aspirations. “The Henry Connors Orchestra is scheduled to perform in Minneapolis this summer. Would you like a ticket?”

  Her mother started to shrug that habitual shrug that said she couldn’t care less. But she stopped. “I guess I would.”

  It was enough. It was more than Rett had ever fantasized being possible between them. “I’ll make sure you get one. I travel a lot and live up in Rochester now—”

  “What the hell is in Rochester?”

  “The Mayo Clinic. My partner is a researcher there. Angel Martinetta.”

  “That mousy Martinetta girl? You’re sleeping with her?”

  Rett tried not to take umbrage.Mousy was hardly the right word to describe Angel’s Italian vibrancy. “We’re partners, Mama. Two years and counting. She needed to move to Rochester to start a research project and I went with her. My agent still thinks I’m crazy to have left L.A., but I travel so much I wanted to spend all the time I could with her.”

  Her mother suddenly looked tired and Rett stood up. “I think I’ll go now,” she said. “I was just trying to say I would try to see you sooner than two years this time. Maybe we don’t have anything in common. Maybe I’m only here because I feel like I ought to be. But it’s a start.”

  “At least I raised you to be honest,” her mother said. She started to get out of the chair, but Rett waved her down.

  “I know the way out, I think.” She ducked into the kitchen first. “I’ll take care of this, Mama,” she said, holding up the electric bill. “It’s hard to make ends meet when you can’t work.”

  Her mother didn’t say thank you—they had no precedent for gratitude. She didn’t say she was looking forward to their next visit, and Rett couldn’t bring herself to say it either. She wasn’t, and as her mother had said, about such things she was honest.They just looked at each other, two grown women with a bitter history. Rett knew she had changed and did not think her mother ever would. She was only here because Antonio’s memory demanded that she get past who her mother had never been and would never be. Family and forgiveness. He had never said it was easy.

  * * *

  Cuddled in the impersonal warmth of a motel bed, Rett and Angel shared warm and comforting kisses now that desire had finally been satisfied. “I was afraid to tell you how glad I was to see you.”

  Rett understood. “Same here. As if I wanted—” Her voice broke abruptly. “As if I wanted there to be a funeral so I could get out of about ten performances and spend an entire night in bed with you for the first time in what, four months?”

  “He would understand,” Angel said softly. “He loved you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “He’d be proud of what you did today.”

  “I’d have sung—”

  “Not that. I saw the electric bill. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Angel’s eyes shone in the dark and their glow warmed Rett in the place where Angel’s father had left his presence as well. “She’s been sick. Nothing’s better. It just…is. I can either run or accept it. Running takes too much energy.”

  Angel yawned with her whole body, then snuggled her head into Rett’s armpit. “Will you record it for me? ‘Con te partirò’? I want to play it when I miss you. I’ll need a CD. A cassette will just wear out in a week.”

  Rett began to sing it again, softly, until Angel’s breathing had steadied. They would both sleep better tonight, finally. Angel murmured in her sleep—she often did—and Rett smiled in the dark. I will go with you, she thought, for this lifetime, for all the rest that follow.

  And Now a Word…or Two

  For those of you who have little interest in the blatherings of authors, please feel no obligation to read further. My intent is to answer the Frequently Asked Questions I receive from many readers. I also thought this was the perfect opportunity to extend some deserving thanks and appreciation to some special people who have helped me over the years.

  First and foremost in my thanks is of course my partner, Maria. I won’t even attempt to describe the quality and depth of her endless support. Never a cheerleader, always a critic, she motivates me to overcome my natural inertia.

  I should say right up front that Maria thought the following comments should be with each story as appropriate. I decided to gather them at the end of the book where they would intrude less on the reader’s enjoyment. She feels this was the wrong choice. I had the final word. It was a chartreuse Volkswagen, sweetie.

  In Every Port IEP wasn’t the first novel I finished, it was just the first decent one, and the first written for myself as a lesbian and for the lesbian reader. I had no expectation that Naiad Press would print it, but one Saturday, just after seven a.m., Barbara Grier herself called to say they wanted to do so. Over the years Barbara and I have had many seven a.m. conversations; I think she realized early on I am generally not alert at that hour. My contribution is usually a half-aware, “That sounds like a good idea.” We have, from that earliest conversation, gotten along famously.

  After the sheer luck of having IEP accepted for publication, I became the most fortunate of first-time novelists: Katherine V. Forrest edited the book. I learned more from a four-page editor’s letter and the cogent remarks in the margins of that manuscript than I did in a year of writing classes. Her thoughtful, gentle, supportive approach was everything an inexperienced writer could want. For that, and all the kind words through the years, I thank Katherine from the bottom of my heart.

  Even with Katherine’s input, there are to this day parts of IEP that make the writer in me cringe. But I still love that story. When I wrote “Conversations” for this book, I drew on my own truths as half of an old-married couple. Maria and I are rapidly approaching our 25th year. Our conversations are no longer linear and an outside observer would probably think we’re not listening to each other most of the time. They’d be wrong, of course.

  Touchwood Those of you who have read Touchwood almost always choose it as your favorite. It’s my number one, too, even after all these years. Again, I owe Katherine Forrest thanks for something she did that was, I believe, more painful for her than me: she told me, gently and kindly, that the first draft of the book was unworkable. Barbara Grier flatly used the word weak. Many publishers would have at that point abandoned me entirely as a one-hit wonder, but Barbara gave me more time to think about Katherine’s comments and what it was I really wanted to do.

  Christi Cassidy, who had joined Naiad as an editor, worked on the second draft. Again, I was fortunate. Christi gave me some invaluable insight into what I’d written and suggested several ways I could take figurative doubles and triples to home runs. Every book Christi has edited since includes something she noticed that I had failed to fully flesh out. I am a better writer because of her insights and perspective. Other the years she has tried to teach me the proper use of lay, lie, laid and so forth, with absolutely no success.

  This will surprise those of you who love Touchwood—it is in a close tie for last in sales of all of my books. It was a critical success, however; I keep some of those reviews handy for instant pep talks. I do wonder if the theme, an intergenerational romance, is not really of interest to some women. To each her own, of course. I’ll share a wink with those of you who have read it. Not only is Touchwood probably your favorite book of mine, but Louisa is most likely your favorite character. Perhaps “Satisfaction” in this book will help those women who didn’t read Touchwood realize why they just might enjoy it.

  “Come Here” was previously published in The Erotic Naiad. It has been slightly edited, but for the most part is unchanged since I rather liked it when I was done with it. Judy and Dedric were characters I wished I could get back to over the year
s. When I began writing Watermark, they were right there, ready to be a part of the action. Some characters are like that.

  Paperback Romance I was a serial romance junkie in my teens. I read one a day for at least three years. I still have a collection of my favorites. It was at about this time that I fell in love with Maria (we were juniors in high school; she was reading Faulkner) and began to understand why I gobbled the books up for the heroines, not the heroes. I was intensely interested in the emotional life of nurses on New Zealand sheep stations, ingenues on the London stage, and independent women whose cars broke down in remote places. I wrote PR as a gentle satire of the romance genre. It is a lighthearted, far-fetched book to be enjoyed in a bubble bath.

  “Key of Sea” picks up on the brief mention of Nick’s new lover in the closing pages of PR. The closing pages also immortalized a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Sacramento. To those readers who have expressed an interest in finding that KFC, and perhaps participating in a reenactment, there is no KFC on that stretch of Fair Oaks Boulevard. Sorry. Call it artistic license.

  Car Pool I would have to say that Car Pool was my first serious romance. (I do not believe that “serious” and “romance” are mutually exclusive.) Touchwood had a serious theme, but Rayann and Louisa are mostly concerned with working out the kinks of their own relationship. Car Pool features two women with big issues of their own. Anthea’s emotional blocks come from alcoholic parents. She wants to quit smoking. She is so closeted she doesn’t even see the door—or the closet. Shay’s financial straits are extreme and the racist and sexist workplace she endures would crush a less sturdy soul. Before they can hope to solve problems in their relationship they have a lot of work to do themselves.

  I am often asked how much of my own life appears in my books. Obviously, I draw on my own experiences for all sorts of inspiration, but CP has the one scene that happened to me. For those who have read the book: the chili pepper oil. I was on the receiving end. ‘Nuff said.

  It has been vastly gratifying over the years to hear from readers that CP gave them the push they needed to talk about the frightening, volatile and highly personal topic of money. Who says romance novels are just light entertainment? Not me.