“We had a rather difficult time after Bridgette knew what was going on. I was a basket case. Liz ended up with a mess on her hands. I remember going to her house after spending the afternoon at the bar. I was trying to sort out what had happened. I threw up on her front lawn and passed out. She had to carry me into the house, clean me up, and put me to bed. In the morning I told her what had happened, that Bridgette was moving out. I half expected her to run, thinking that that should be my punishment for cheating, but she didn’t. Instead, she threw herself wholeheartedly into capturing what she referred to as the love of her life. God, I felt like such a shit, like I didn’t deserve anyone’s love. It was a mess. Then, of course, the community was small enough to know exactly what had gone on. Mutual friends would see both of us about, and I was the cheating bitch, responsible for breaking up the icon couple of the group. And it didn’t help that Liz had money. I looked like I was hooking up with a sugar bitch, dumping the brilliant, hard-working love of many years for something better. I was seen as the self-serving asshole.”
“Were you?”
Celia took a drink and chuckled. “No. I’m more like a victim of passion. A lot of our friends thought it was lust, but when I ended up in therapy Liz didn’t let go. She saw me through it. I think we all realized that lifelong love is not easily obtainable. Bridgette was a saint through the whole thing. She got to know Liz and helped out dealing with my neurotic stage.”
“Why neurotic?” Maggie asked.
“I couldn’t understand how Bridgette could walk away so easily, always knowing that we wouldn’t make it, when I had always expected that we would be together forever. I kept questioning love, asking how people who swore love could give it up and move on with their lives. Why was I devastated by what happened, while Bridgette seemed okay? As I got older I realized that it wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was that she was a survivor. And survivors carry on. They don’t fall apart and torment themselves by asking unanswerable existential questions. I came to understand that love is possible, but it’s not necessarily eternal. Bridgette was right all along. Sometimes things aren’t quite right, or stop being right, and letting go is the only answer. That’s how I got through the split with Liz. We were right. For a long time, we were right. But then something happened—I’m still not quite sure what, but we had to let go.”
“That’s sad.”
“Not really. Once Liz and I got past my insanity, tears, and bouts of blues, we got on really well. We had a good relationship for a long time.”
“How did you two finally end it?” Maggie asked, thinking that for all the times she had felt she should leave Harold, knowing that staying was a horrible mistake, she couldn’t break through the inertia that immobilized her. She stayed because she lacked the courage that leaving required.
Celia looked at her. “Need another beer?” she said, getting up.
“Please,” Maggie replied.
Celia went inside.
Maggie wondered if she had transgressed a hurtful line.
Celia pulled two more Coronas from the fridge and chopped two chunks of lime. Leaving, people leaving. It almost made one not want to fall in love. God, it had hurt knowing that she was losing Liz, but she hadn’t known how to make her stay or how to justify a few more years together when they both knew that what they once had, was no longer. Neither was strong enough to make the comfortably neutral into the passion that they needed to survive.
So they had done the squeamish thing and drifted apart before finally letting go. Celia knew that in the past five years after parting, neither had found that elusive lover. They had each taken lovers from time to time, but none of them mattered enough to build a life with. They both yearned for it, and seeing each other fail bothered them, as if they had made a dreadful mistake by not keeping watch over what they had.
Celia didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with casual lovers, but she had begun to doubt that she would find the right lover, the one who could keep it all going until they both stopped breathing. She hated to admit it, but her cynicism was becoming a protective shroud that enveloped her heart.
When Celia returned to the veranda, Maggie looked distinctly uncomfortable. Maggie ran her finger around the rim of her bottle and stared off into space, signaling discomfort. Funny how after all these years she retained the same mannerisms.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why should something be wrong?”
“Because you have that look.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“Are you prying?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to explain the last twenty years in order to fulfill my insensitive curiosity. It wasn’t thoughtful to ask about things that might cause you pain.”
“It’s perfectly understandable. After all, we used to share things all the time. I don’t mind, really. But you’ll have to do the same. Not right now maybe, but sometime. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“I’ve missed you.”
Maggie smiled at her. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Celia told Maggie how the end had come about when Liz got a teaching offer in Vermont. Those were strange days. They knew things weren’t good. They had moments of bickering, and they hated that. Neither one of them could admit that it was time to let go, so Liz pretended that she wanted Celia to go with her. Celia declined, to both their relief. They cried, tried to make amends, and made passionate love, but in the end Liz left for Vermont and Celia stayed with the ranch and the studio.
“We tried the long distance thing. For a while it worked okay. It gave our relationship some of the space it was missing. Space in a lesbian relationship is not always obtainable.”
“Why do you suppose?” Maggie asked.
“I think it’s that woman-mother-sister-nurturer-empathizer thing that makes women so incredible and yet so consumptive of each other. Trying to be someone’s everything takes a lot out of a person,” Celia replied, thinking about Libby. She didn’t give much of herself to Libby because Celia couldn’t bear those kinds of feelings any more, and she knew Libby wasn’t the right one.
“Do you still miss her, think about her?” Maggie asked.
“Daily. But I have learned some things about myself that I wouldn’t have if I’d stayed with Liz. I think about how I went from Bridgette’s arms into Liz’s without so much as a breather. It is not what I had planned, but sometimes it’s nice not to have to worry about how someone else is doing.”
Maggie sipped her beer and scanned the horizon. Her own partnership crept into her thoughts.
* * *
Her wedding day had had an eerie, surreal quality, as though she were simply observing. It was discomforting to watch her life proceed like a play. She wanted to exit the stage, exit the wings, and exit the theater entirely. But the performance went on.
She stood at the altar in masquerade. After Celia had left, Maggie felt that some part of her had been amputated. She married Harold because his body was an anesthetic. He soothed, placated, and seduced her into being his. She was at a loss to find a reason not to marry him.
“Did you ever cheat on Liz?” Maggie asked Celia.
“No, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it or that I didn’t flirt. Did you ever fuck around?”
Maggie smiled. “Let’s just say that occasionally I’ve had invitations, but I never took anyone up. It seemed like it was more trouble than it was worth.”
“Of course, now you could with a clean conscience.”
“No, I couldn’t. I’m done with that.”
“Maggie, you’re only forty-six. It’s pretty early to throw in the towel.”
“I wouldn’t know how to have another lover, or a spouse. I’m too old to be someone’s blushing companion.”
“Never say never.”
“No, I had my love affair.”
Years began to fade as each acquainted the
other with what had transpired. Maggie told her about Harold’s death, in all its suddenness. They both laughed and cried, agreeing that he was a good man, with Celia thinking he was just not the right person simply because he was a man, and Maggie thinking he was the only man she could have married because Celia had touched him and taught him things—and being with him was a way of being with her.
“Why did you marry him?”
“Why, were you jealous?”
“No, I was happy that you were taking care of him.”
Maggie dodged Celia’s inquisitive eyes. “Because he was kind to me.”
“Do you remember the night you kissed me?”
“Yes.”
The conversation, which could have turned into a long-needed confession, was abruptly brought to a close as a young woman sauntered onto the veranda, smiled at Maggie, and kissed Celia lightly on the cheek in an act of ownership. Maggie covered her surprise, and Celia her embarrassment.
“Maggie, this is Libby, one of my apprentices. Libby, this is my friend Maggie.”
Libby extended her hand. She was lithe, tanned, and able-bodied with a dazzling white smile and vivid green eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back off her jaunty shoulders.
Celia could tell Maggie was uncomfortable. Although Celia felt angry, she instantly buried any trace of it. Libby knew how to work Celia’s emotions in her favor, and Celia had reacted by growing more careful, burying emotions she had once been quick to show. Celia did not like the slant her life was taking. She wondered if having Maggie come was a remedy to get her life on track after the crash-course turns it had been taking.
Libby stayed only a few uncomfortable minutes, and once freed of her presence the two old friends resumed their easy tone. They took leave of each other around midnight. Maggie stood at her open window and gazed at the desert shimmering in the light of a waxing crescent moon. The landscape was empty yet pregnant, and its solitude frightened her. She closed the window and fell into an exhausted sleep that hid her dreams and fears.
She awoke to find Celia holding a tray with a carafe and two cups. The aroma of the rich black coffee permeated the room. Sunlight flooded the room, making the wood floor shine. Maggie gasped at the blueness of the sky as it showed itself through the fluttering sheers.
“It’s so blue.”
Celia looked out the window. “It is. Bluer than most places. Coffee? You didn’t give it up because you lived with a doctor?” Celia asked.
“Please. Can’t survive without it.”
“So the worrywart didn’t cure you of all life’s little vices?”
“He tried. Everything in moderation, you know. A lot of good it did him. The bastard died at fifty-six.”
Celia cocked her head and crinkled her forehead. “Are you angry about his dying?”
“Wouldn’t you be? I planned my life around him, sold my dreams for his safe arms, and he died.”
Celia poured the coffee. She was so glad to have Maggie there that she had shamefully forgotten how it had come to be.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m still processing baggage,” Maggie replied.
“Perfectly understandable.” Celia smiled.
As they sipped coffee, Maggie’s memory wandered back to other mornings when they had sat drinking coffee, back to a time when the two of them existed in happy communion, talking over breakfast and planning adventures. If only life could have stayed so easy, so uncomplicated. Growing up meant that life got progressively more complicated and less pleasurable.
She learned that from Harold. Harold had been convinced that being pained and uncomfortable meant one was living. Maggie hated his fortitude and his diligence. She felt frivolous in the wake of his decisiveness. Her most pleasurable experiences had been with Celia. They had often sustained her when the gravity of being serious, grown-up, and well-behaved threatened to crush her.
Celia tousled Maggie’s hair and disrupted her wanderings.
“I thought today we’d pack a lunch and go for a hike in the arroyo. It’s part of your desert orientation.”
“Wonderful,” Maggie replied. Celia left her to her coffee. She needed to coordinate some of the workshop activities before she took a much-needed day off.
Celia found Libby already at work trimming pots. She didn’t look up when Celia entered the studio.
“Sanchez order?” Celia inquired.
“Yep. I thought we should complete it by the weekend. Of course, that was before you decided to take a little vacation,” Libby replied, letting the wheel come to a slow stop, and looking up.
“Everyone needs some diversion now and then. I figured you could finish the order with no trouble.”
“I thought I was your diversion,” Libby said, a sardonic smile sliding across her face.
“I could be offended, but why bother if that’s how you choose to see what’s going on? That’s your business. Anyway, I’m going to be gone part of the day. Will you place the supply order and mail the ad copy?”
“In my spare time?”
“Libby, I plan on helping you with the Sanchez order, but you can do most of the prep work. This is, after all, a job. If you don’t like the workload, move on,” Celia replied, feeling color rise to her cheeks.
“Fine. Please, by all means, go have fun romping with your childhood sweetheart.”
“She is not my childhood sweetheart. She’s a widow. For chrissakes, Libby, I do have straight friends.”
“Then why are you trying to create the island of Lesbos in the middle of the desert?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“The apprenticeship program this summer.”
“Not all woman-centered women are lesbians.”
“Just most of them.”
“It’s about art, Libby. Art should not be practiced in isolation. Besides, the apprenticeship program is how you got here, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Whatever you say,” Libby said, kicking the flywheel and resuming her work.
Celia clenched her jaw and suppressed the urge to backhand the nearest piece of greenware. She took a deep breath, stretched her neck from side to side, and walked away. Libby watched from the corner of her eye.
Making lunch, Celia kept thinking about what Libby had said. She was right, of course. Celia did use her for a diversion against the loneliness that sometimes threatened to engulf her. It wasn’t healthy for either of them. She had tried to break it off, but somehow Libby managed to stave off the inevitable.
Maggie found her viciously chopping cucumbers.
“Are they dead yet?” Maggie chided.
“Yes,” Celia laughed, thinking that chopping food, cooking something, was a way she processed anger. A leftover from therapy, but it worked. It was definitely preferable to screaming fuck you at the top of her lungs and hurling the nearest object across the room. The affair with Libby was over, or it would be over shortly, and Libby would just have to get used to the idea.
Celia led Maggie out into the desert chatting amiably. On such a fine day, one should not be bothered by the petty affairs of a fucked-up relationship.
“I wish whacking up cucumbers would put such a bounce in my step.”
Celia looked at her slightly alarmed. “You do like cucumber sandwiches?”
“Yes, I love them.”
“Libby’s such a beast, and sometimes dealing with her makes me a tad cranky.”
“So are you two…” Maggie asked.
“Lovers? Not exactly. She’s infatuated, and I got caught up in that and now I’m regretting it. She has her good points; they just happen to be buried beneath a nasty disposition.”
“She’s certainly attractive.”
“She is. I’ll give you that. Come on, we’re almost to the edge of the arroyo.”
They followed a narrow twisting trail of reddish-black rock downward. The looming saguaros were left behind on the painted plains as smaller plants and ground-hugging cacti of various kinds took their place. The plants, the strange-colored r
ocks with convoluted surfaces, and the intense blue sky resembled a hallucinogenic illusion. Salvador Dali does the desert, thought Maggie.
“It’s all so queer, so different,” Maggie said when Celia stopped to empty the pebble that had worked its way into her hiking boot.
“That’s why I like it. I can never quite put my finger on why I’m in love, or rapture, with a place most people think desolate and too hot. I like basking in the gentle glow of the mighty fireball,” Celia said, laughing and raising her arms skyward, “except maybe when it’s a hundred and twelve. But a cool beer on the veranda can make you forget the heat. I do hope that you’re falling madly in love with the place,” Celia said, her eyes barely perceptible beneath her bandanna and large brimmed straw hat.
“Will it be a moral slam on my character if I don’t?”
“No, you wouldn’t be the first. Liz thought it was nice but that one place was as good as another. We desert rats are a select few,” Celia said, twisting her mouth to one side and shaking her head in resignation.
Maggie smiled. She had forgotten the expressive nature of Celia’s face. How she used to laugh at her antics, amazed that anyone’s face could be so expressive. Celia had the refined ability of a two-year-old to express in the simplest terms what she was feeling or thinking.
“Well, if I could have a hat like yours, with whatever you have strung around the middle of it, that might just be possible.”
“Oh, this,” Celia said, bending down to give Maggie a closer look.
“They’re shriveled-up lizards,” Maggie replied, taking a step backward.
“Precisely, I collect them. All my hats have them.”
“And how many hats do you have?”
“Seven exquisitely formed, carefully chosen delights.”
“Including this one?”
“Yes, this is number four purchased during a foray in Jerome from a man named Earl who owns the Mexican restaurant and sells hats, stringed chilies, and the hottest salsa in the world.”
“This truly is your place,” Maggie said as she followed Celia deeper into the arroyo.
Saxon Bennett - The Wish List Page 3
