Chapter Two
The plane left the runway. It was too late to change her mind.
She’d done so a half-dozen times, dragging her luggage up from the cellar to the second story and put it back again. She had pulled clothes from the closet, sorted through them, and put them back; pulled them out, put them back. She had made a pro list and a con list, several lists in fact, with the reasons becoming more abstract and absurd with each one. She had scrunched them up into balls and pitched them across the room.
The day of departure she got up and packed. She didn’t think; she did things automatically. She haphazardly flung clothes in two large suitcases. Harold would have been horrified. She called Amanda and left a message on her answering machine. The coward’s way out. She took a cab to the airport. In three hours she would be there. She would see Celia.
As the plane passed over the patchwork earth below, Maggie felt apprehension growing like a cold knot in the pit of her stomach. She ordered a martini and thought about Celia. What would she be like? Had it been a good twenty years or a slow hell? What will she think of me?
Maggie suddenly felt conservative, well-mannered, nondescript. A doctor’s wife. That was, after all, her lifelong achievement. What was Celia’s? What am I doing? What is this jaunting out into the unknown about? Is this some form of midlife crisis? Maybe Amanda wasn’t so farfetched thinking that her mother was losing her marbles. But Maggie couldn’t tolerate having Amanda shove one more magazine article on older women’s various psychoses in her face.
The plane descended. Maggie was scared—there was no turning back. She would have to face whatever was ahead. Seven days. She could put on a brave face for that long. After all, she’d managed that for twenty years.
Celia stood waiting. Her long, curly locks of twenty years ago cut short, nearly shaved at the side and back with a surprising long lock of curls that ran nearly to her waist. She was nut-brown and wore sandals. The easy nature of her denim dress and white shirt told of mannerisms Maggie once knew. Celia put her hand to Maggie’s cheek and drew her near. Maggie smelled the sun in her hair, the light scent of perfume and sweat on her neck.
“Thank you so much for coming. I wasn’t sure you would,” Celia whispered in her ear.
Maggie looked at her and smiled. “I wasn’t sure myself until this morning.”
“Spontaneity at our age is a good thing, Maggie,” Celia replied, taking her arm and leading in the direction of the baggage carousel.
“You’re still the only one who brings it out in me.”
“We have a week to see just how stodgy you’ve become.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Maggie felt the rush of warm air as they left Sky Harbor Airport. She was glad she had the foresight not to wear a sweater.
She watched Celia’s tanned arm shift the Jeep as they lurched and weaved through traffic, leaving the skyscrapers of Phoenix behind as they headed toward the unknown horizon.
“What’s it like never having winter?”
“Odd at first. There is no sense of death or of renewal. Living here is like an endless vacation. I’m not sure that’s good, but it helps stave off depression. It’s hard to brood on a beautiful sunny day.”
Maggie looked at Celia. Celia had forgotten the piercing gaze of those green eyes. She quickly looked away.
Maggie broke the silence. “Why now?”
Celia was puzzled for a moment. “Why did I want you to come?”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t have come, wouldn’t have come, if Harold was alive. I couldn’t have asked. Even in those moments when I needed you most, I knew that what happened between the three of us hurt too much. There was no going back.”
“You needed me?”
Celia looked at her and squeezed her hand. “More than you’ll ever know.”
Maggie sat back in her seat and felt a flood of contentment. Celia had thought of her in those years. She was glad she had come.
“So how did you end up here?”
“I came out to finish school, fell in love with the desert, and never left. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else,” Celia replied.
“I’ve never been to the desert. We always traveled east.”
The Jeep created a stream of dust as they left the main highway behind and bounced down a dirt road. When they turned a corner, the ranch opened up suddenly before them, a pop-up vision of southwestern living. The house was a two-story adobe made of red clay, and its edges and corners were rounded, smooth, and uneven. Off to one side were other buildings made of the same material, only smaller.
Celia watched Maggie’s face as she looked at the house.
“It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“Well, it’s come a long way since we first bought it.”
“Who’s we?” Maggie asked shyly, awaiting Celia’s beautiful spouse to come streaming forth from the house to greet her with art and grace and make Maggie feel stuffy and awkward.
“Liz and I bought it for a song; they practically gave it to us. It was a dilapidated old house then. I bought Liz out a couple of years ago. She’s in Vermont now teaching.”
“Were you two lovers?” Maggie asked before she could stop herself.
Celia raised an eyebrow, “My, we’re inquisitive. Remember, truth-or-dare has its consequences.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, and it really is none of my business,” Maggie said, grabbing her bag from the back of the Jeep. Her Louis Vuitton luggage was covered in dust from the road, and she inwardly smiled. Harold would have been mortified.
Celia touched her arm. “Don’t be. Yes, Liz and I were lovers for fifteen years. In the end things didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. We had a lot of good times and a lot of growth. Sometimes that means growing apart. Come on, let’s get a cold drink and we’ll talk.”
“Beer?” Maggie inquired.
“Of course, no twelve-steppers here. I’m glad to see life in the Midwest didn’t succeed in reforming you.”
“A doctor’s wife. No, it would spoil the cocktail parties.”
Celia smiled and grabbed Maggie’s other bag.
Once inside, Maggie was led to her room on the second floor. She had to stop herself from wanting to look at and touch everything. Harold had always chided her for being too sensitive to her environment. Celia caught her desire.
“I’ll give you the grand tour, and you can fondle as you like.”
“Thanks.”
Maggie’s room was at the end of the hall. It overlooked the courtyard through a large window open to the desert air, sheers fluttering carelessly. There was an antique four-poster bed with a light blue canopy. A large armoire dominated the other corner of the room, and a small writing desk sat next to the window.
“I suppose you found these as awful antiques and redid them?” Maggie inquired.
“Of course. I have a passion for taking misused and forlorn things and making them beautiful again.”
“You have made them beautiful,” Maggie said, running her hand across the writing desk.
Celia left her to unpack.
She sat on the bed. It felt good to be away. This bed hadn’t known Harold and never would; the bathroom wouldn’t be filled with his things; the closet and drawers would show no signs of him. Here she would learn to breathe again.
Celia showed her the rest of the house, each room filled with strange artifacts, rugs, antiques. Maggie thought it the most beautiful house she had ever seen, so different from the cherry-wood stuffiness of the Midwest with its elegance and fine china. This was rustic, real, and earthy. Celia was pleased with Maggie’s reactions. Building this house, making it home, had been one of her greatest pleasures.
Celia pulled two Coronas from the fridge and squeezed in some lime juice, saying, “It’s a southwestern thing. I hope you like it.”
They sat on the veranda, which overlooked the garden. Easing back into the chair
, Celia stretched her long tanned legs. Maggie admired their shapely leanness. Nice legs. Celia always had nice legs. All that roaming she used to do.
“Do you still walk all the time?”
“Every morning. Want to come tomorrow? It’ll be like old times.”
“I’d love to.”
Silence ensued. Both felt it acutely.
Maggie looked straight at her. “Are you going to tell me things or do I have to ask embarrassing questions.”
“Only if you promise to return the favor. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. The question is, do you really want to know?”
“I do. I want to know how you’ve spent your life. I’ve always cared about you, Celia, and I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
“I don’t really know where to start.”
“Start with Liz, since she helped you with this beautiful house.”
Celia took a sip. She drew a design with her forefinger in the condensation on the side of the bottle while she meditated on the answer.
Liz, Elizabeth Miller. The mental picture of her was always the same: standing on the steps outside the Language and Literature Building, sunglasses on, smoking a cigarette, the sun glistening on her dark hair, her head cocked to one side, and her lips smiling. Celia remembered that picture because that was the day she realized she loved Liz.
For an entire year they had been friends, classmates, and drinking buddies, and only occasionally had Celia felt the weight of Liz’s gaze, which seemed filled with something akin to sexual energy, until that night. It had been stupid and could have been forgotten, except that it loosed what they both had been denying.
They had been drinking since early afternoon. They had just finished their final exams and were blowing off steam. Celia went to call home. She hung up the receiver and turned around. Liz was standing there, waiting for her.
“Following me now, are you?” Celia had chided. Liz looked at her with such a swelling in her eyes, Celia couldn’t help but feel it. Before she knew what happened, Liz kissed her. It wasn’t simply a friendly, affectionate kiss; it was a deep, longed for suppression brought suddenly to the surface. Celia closed her eyes and melted into Liz’s arms and mouth. When Celia opened her eyes, Liz had disappeared.
For a moment Celia thought she had imagined the whole thing until she saw their empty glasses sitting on the table with no one in sight. Celia walked out of the bar in a daze. She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to decide which way to go.
Habit and fear forced her home. She stayed away from Liz for two days. A whole two days. Celia commended herself on her willpower. Then she broke. She went out for her morning jog and ran around the university district trying to avoid doing what she knew she would. She arrived at Liz’s doorstep. The look they gave each other through the screen door said everything.
“Got a drink for a thirsty soul?” Celia asked.
“Sure,” Liz replied, opening the door.
Celia sat on the couch sipping her cranberry juice cocktail and trying to think of what to say. It was strange. It wasn’t the first time she had gone running and ended up at Liz’s to have a drink. She had always looked forward to it; now she was frightened.
Liz sat next to her. “I’m sorry about the other night. That was way out of line.”
Celia looked at her. “Was it?”
“I know that you’re involved, and I can’t imagine you cheating any more than I can see myself as a mistress.”
Liz studied her hands. Celia swirled her drink.
“What happened happened, for a reason I don’t think either of us can ignore anymore.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“We could have dinner.”
“Okay,” Liz replied.
That night they made dinner together, settling into a couple without realizing it. Liz had gone shopping and bought the provisions for an epicurean delight. Somewhere in the middle of the dinner preparation they kissed. They ate dinner with pensive, searching eyes that asked, Do you feel like I feel? Do you want like I do? Halfway through washing the dishes, the foreplay started.
Liz stopped them, saying, “I don’t want to be a home wrecker but I can’t help how I feel.”
Celia kissed her in response. “Please take me to bed.”
And Liz did. Celia remembered how gently Liz removed her clothes, kissing every part of her, bending her over the bed and making love to every orifice until every part of her had been loved. And Celia loved Liz in return, with Liz on top of her, crying out in ecstasy until they lay in each other’s arms. Liz brushed Celia’s hair from her face.
“I want you to know that I love you.”
Celia started to cry. She couldn’t help it. “I love you, too. I can’t help loving you; I want to love you.”
“I know things are going to be complicated for a while, but I want you to know that I’ll wait. I’m willing to wait.”
They lay in each other’s arms until Liz looked at the clock. “You’d better go. This isn’t how she should find out.”
Celia went home reluctantly. She pretended to be asleep when Bridgette crawled into bed. Celia silently cried herself to sleep, knowing she had committed what they promised each other would never happen.
For weeks afterward Celia made some incredible ceramic pieces built out of her newfound knowledge of the gamut of love. All the emotions that love inspired touched her in rapid succession. She astounded her classmates, professors, and sometimes herself with the intense erotic nature of her work.
She spent time with Liz when Bridgette was away, and when Bridgette was home Celia found herself being the perfect mate as if making up for her indiscretion. Celia oscillated between grief and elation until guilt set in. It wasn’t fair to any of them to keep the game going. Something was going to break.
And it did. It happened one night at the bar, almost by accident. Bridgette had some time off. Celia hadn’t seen Liz in a week. She missed her dreadfully. Bridgette, sensing something was wrong, suggested diversion.
They met friends at the bar. The diversion did help. Celia felt the relief of being out and away from what she felt sure was Bridgette’s inquiring gaze. It was the same sort of guilt that drove Lady Macbeth to repeatedly wash her hands. Celia couldn’t stop thinking about the hideous lie she was living. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t act normal, she couldn’t be herself because she no longer was herself. She was a mess of sticky-sweet emotions.
In the midst of drowning herself in beer and small talk, Celia saw Liz’s dark profile across the room. She felt herself drawn toward her. Despite the risk, Celia couldn’t stay away. Their eyes met, and Celia made her way across the crowded bar on the pretext of going to the restroom.
Liz watched her and quickly followed. In the back stall, they made hurried passionate love. Celia hadn’t meant for that to happen. She only wanted to see Liz, to hold her, to give her body a taste of what it craved. But neither of them could stop. Celia hurried out in a panic, her face flushed, her appearance disheveled.
She met Bridgette’s gaze, and then she fled. Bridgette went after her and found Celia crying.
“What’s wrong?” Bridgette asked, alarmed.
“If I tell you, you’ll hate me,” Celia said between sobs.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re in love with someone else. Why can’t you tell me? Do you think I don’t know? That I don’t smell her on you when you come home, that I don’t know that when I’m not home you’re with her, that friends haven’t seen the two of you around town? I’m a lot of things, Celia, but I’m not stupid. Learn to say good-bye, and let us both get on with our lives.”
“I still love you.”
“But not the way you love her. Let’s go before things get ugly.”
“Are you through with loving me?” Celia asked through tear-stained eyes.
“I’ll always love you, but I never expected for us to love each other forever. I
always knew someone else would come along.”
“You’re not sad?”
“Of course I’m sad. Come on, let’s go home.”
That night they held each other and made love for the last time, crying and laughing about old times. In the morning Bridgette pushed Celia out the door. “Go talk to her and tell her what’s going on.”
Celia, helpless, looked at Bridgette. “What is going on?”
“I’m leaving you or, if you prefer, you’re leaving me.”
“Am I?”
“I can’t be so magnanimous as to let you have a mistress and a wife. Besides, you know as well as I do that we’ve been companions more than lovers for a long time. Stop being such a coward, Celia, and get on with it.”
Celia went running, feeling strange, as if she were running around with a chunk of her soul missing. The even thudding of her shoes on the dirt path and her breathing were the only reminders that she was still there. She didn’t go to Liz that night. She made dinner for Bridgette feeling like a somnambulist, going through well-rehearsed motions in order to feel grounded.
Meanwhile, Bridgette was making plans. She wanted to strike out on her own. The realization then came to Celia that her lover had been slowly processing the crisis and dissociating herself in an effort to survive with minimum damage. Celia had thought if anyone broke, it would be Bridgette. But Celia suffered worse. Bridgette went on with her life in good form, wistful when required, strong and practical throughout. Celia had a more difficult adjustment but was luckily rescued by Liz, who quickly discovered the obligatory side of love.
And that was how Celia began the story of how she got together with Liz. She kept eyeing Maggie throughout her narrative, reading from her expressions what her friend might be thinking.
Saxon Bennett - The Wish List Page 2
