“How’s this?” Celia asked her, coming to a stop. The stream they had been following spread into a little pool that allowed small trees to grow. They sat on a large, flat rock and dipped their feet into the cool, green pool that lay in contrast to the surrounding hot, dry landscape.
“This tiny little oasis, I don’t know. I thought we were going to McDonald’s. Did you make a wrong turn?”
“You brat. It’s nice to see you smile and laugh.”
“You mean I’m transcending your image of the grieving widow? It still doesn’t seem real. There were nights I stayed awake so I wouldn’t have to see him in my dreams. I used to dream about you, too, after you left.”
Maggie picked up a stick and began to dig rocks out of the sole of her boot. “The hardest part about your leaving was that it turned me chicken. I became the coward I always was.”
“You didn’t like or want to be a doctor’s wife?” Celia queried, trying to be sensitive.
Celia knew that Maggie had finished school, had even earned a master’s degree, but had done nothing with it. Celia knew Maggie had never done any of the different or outstanding things that she was perfectly capable of doing. When Celia’s mother finally got used to the idea of having a lesbian for a daughter, she had looked forward to Celia’s mostly infrequent calls. Sally filled her in on all the gossip.
“I never meant to hurt you,” Celia said, having a sudden revelation that she was somehow responsible for Maggie’s apathy, hoping it was egotism on her part for even entertaining such a notion.
“You did,” Maggie said, standing up and walking into the stream, looking out into the desert. “I know that my life should have been good, should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I don’t know why it felt like a shell for something that could have been deeper, richer, fuller.”
“But we all live with some form of nagging disappointment.”
Maggie turned to her. “And what was yours?”
Celia found herself stuck for an answer. Either she was the queen of compromise or she hadn’t expected any of life’s grand notions and had been quite happy with her choices. She knew that the things that drove others didn’t drive her. Liz felt differently and had gone questing, leaving Celia in the process.
“I only know some things for certain. Love will not fill the void that a human soul feels. Only a life vision strived for, a sensation felt passionately and nurtured, will bring forth the fruit that fills the hunger created by disappointment. Love, Maggie, will never give you everything you need.”
“But it can give you some of what you want.”
“Yes.”
“And what was, or is, your life vision?”
Celia had a ready answer. “To live on my own terms and in my own way, knowing that is enough.”
Chapter Three
Libby was immediately jealous and felt directly usurped when she walked into the ceramic studio to find Maggie rolling out long clay slabs under Celia’s admiring gaze.
“Ruby’s Café is expanding. They’re putting in a patio section, and Sheryl wants us to do the tabletops. We’re going to put Maggie to work, since she’s willing.”
“And since she’s staying,” Libby replied with obvious annoyance.
It was true. After a week of good dinners, morning coffees, walks, and afternoon beers, Maggie looked wonderful. She was tanned and her eyes were clear and well rested. She felt good. Any creeping notions of eventual insanity were banished. And Celia couldn’t bear to let her go.
* * *
The night before she was scheduled to fly out, Celia had come into her room while she was packing. “I wish you weren’t going,” Celia said, moving Maggie’s suitcase to the other side of the bed and making it difficult for her to continue packing.
“I know. I’m going to miss you, but I’ll come back,” Maggie replied, holding a pile of clothes ready to be packed. Celia took them from her and sat down on the bed holding them on her lap.
“So why don’t you stay for a while longer? The weather is still nasty back there. Why not spend the spring here?”
“And wear out my welcome?” Maggie smiled, thinking it an impossibility.
“I mean it, Maggie. I could teach you to work in the ceramic studio. You seemed interested enough. You’d be working, and the workers live here. Why not you?”
“You’re serious?”
“Very,” Celia replied. “I like having you around. I want you here for as long as you want to stay. We aborted our friendship once. Let’s not do it again.”
“What about the ticket?” Maggie asked, picking it from where it lay on the bureau.
“Like that should be a deciding factor,” Celia chided. “Take a risk, Maggie. We’ll frame it as your first adventurous act in the desert. But answer honestly. Do you want to stay? I’d understand if you want to go back.”
Maggie took the clothes back from Celia. “No, you wouldn’t. You deserted me once, but that doesn’t mean I should do the same. What the hell,” Maggie said, pitching the neatly folded pile of shirts over her shoulder. She sat down next to Celia and put her arm around her shoulders. “I don’t really need or want to go back. In fact, the thought of it gives me claustrophobia. If you’ll take me, I’d love to stay.”
“Really?”
“Really and truly. Just throw me out when you’re sick of me.”
Maggie began her ceramics training the next day. Celia held firm to the conviction that working with one’s hands to make things helped cure the malaise that accosted everyone from time to time. Working with clay had helped her more times than she could count. She hoped it would do the same for Maggie.
“Can I talk to you?” Libby asked.
“Outside?”
“How astute you are,” Libby replied.
Celia met Maggie’s gaze. “I’ll be right back.”
“So what the fuck?” Libby asked, hands on her hips.
It was times like this that made Celia suppress the urge to smack an insolent daughter. One’s lover should not be simulacrum of a daughter. That was evident.
“Don’t talk to me like that. If you want to know something or talk about it, have the courtesy to ask in a decent, polite manner.”
“Yes, mother.”
“That’s precisely the problem here, Libby. I don’t want to be your mother. I don’t want to be your lover. And sometimes you make even being friends difficult.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Libby asked, her knit brows turning her face into a scowl.
The sun was bright, and squinting at Libby was giving Celia a headache. Lately, Libby seemed to have that general effect on her. Celia’s neck tensed up and a throbbing at the back of her head would make its slow journey to the temporal area before insistent pain began.
“Libby, get to the point. What’s wrong?”
“I thought I was your assistant.”
“For chrissakes, Libby, Maggie’s just helping out, and this isn’t a corporate-ladder scene. We all work together. Get used to it or get out.” Celia walked back into the studio. She heard the slam of the truck door and the spinning tires. Libby’s usual manner whenever they fought was to charge off in that damn truck. I should let the air out of the tires next time we get to bickering, Celia thought.
Celia walked into the studio, saw a particularly convenient piece of greenware, and backhanded it off the table.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, much better,” she said, smiling at Maggie. “Now, where were we?”
“Are you all right?”
“No. Actually I need an aspirin or, better yet, a joint.”
“You don’t smoke dope still?”
“Only occasionally, and right now seems like one of those occasions,” Celia replied, pulling a joint out of a drawer. “Come on, let’s go out back. It’ll be fun. Then we’ll cut tiles. The slabs need to get hard anyway.”
They sat in the covered arbor attached to the studio. Maggie found herself getting giddy just like she used to when, just as illicit
ly, they used to sneak off and blow a spliff without Harold knowing. It was their secret, and they used to laugh about how horrified he’d be if he knew.
“I’m sure Harold used to do some things that would horrify us.” Celia said.
“Harold?” Maggie answered. “I think you have him confused with someone else. Harold never did a dishonest thing in his entire life.”
They looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“You’re right.”
“Do you have a local drug dealer?” Maggie asked, wondering what it was like to be middle-aged and buying pot.
“Oh, God no, I grow it in the garden with the rest of the herbs.”
“You’re just like Mrs. Madrigal in Maupin’s Tales of the City.”
“I feel like that sometimes, but what are you doing reading stuff like that?” Celia said smiling.
“It was on PBS. I may be straight, but—”
“You’re not narrow.”
Later that night Celia couldn’t sleep. She went to the studio and worked on the tiles. Libby saw the light and went out to her. Celia was perched on a high stool meticulously cutting the tiles and listening to music, completely absorbed in her thoughts. She felt Libby’s touch on her shoulder, her lips on her bare neck, her soft breath saying, “Don’t be mad. I’m sorry about this afternoon.”
“Libby, this really has got to stop,” Celia said.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just want to spend some time with you,” Libby said, tears welling up in her sparkling green eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Celia said, brushing them away and kissing Libby’s forehead. “Libby, I can’t love you. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I can’t. Please try to understand.” She drew Libby to her and tried to make the tears stop, tried to make the hurt go away.
“I’ll take whatever you can give, please don’t let me go. I need you.”
Celia looked at the tearstained face of her lover. “You only make it harder.”
“I love you, dammit. I can’t make it go away simply because you don’t want it anymore.”
Celia held her, kissed her, allowed her lust to be roused. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wish I could make things different,” Celia told her, unable to be what her lover needed.
They kissed and held each other. They went inside to get some beer before sitting by the pool. They swam and lay naked in each other’s arms.
“Promise me you’ll relax and just let us be.”
Libby looked up at Celia, her eyes bright with love. “Anything. You know I’ll do anything.”
Celia kissed Libby and rolled back into the pool. Libby followed.
Upstairs, Maggie awoke from a dream, another one filled with images of Harold. Hearing voices by the pool, she got up. She stood at the window. Libby and Celia. The dim light from the kitchen illuminated the perimeter of the pool. Maggie heard Celia laugh and saw her gently push Libby away. Libby came back and back again until Celia wrapped her arms around her and did not let go. In the translucent blue water, under the light of the moon, the two women pleased each other. Maggie watched, unable to pry herself from her vantage point.
When the lovemaking was over, the two women lay on a towel near the water’s edge holding each other. Celia stroked Libby’s dark hair and kissed her eyes and mouth. Soon enough, they were enwrapped again. Maggie wondered at their stamina.
Celia also wondered, at Libby’s ability to bewitch. Every time she thought she could get away, could wean Libby away from their strange arrangement, Libby would prostrate herself, make amends, then seduce Celia to the point where she was unable to stop drowning in Libby’s lovely body.
“The only thing we do well together is make love,” Celia said, lying back on the towel, sweaty and spent.
“And argue and kiss and work and be selfish and guarded. We do those things well too.”
“Libby, you deserve more than this. Someone your own age, someone to share everything with, someone to start a life with.”
Libby did something quite out of the ordinary. Instead of engaging in dialogue, she put her finger to Celia’s lips to quiet her and said, “Just hold me.”
This made Celia more apprehensive than an argument. Had they argued, she could have consoled herself that they were ill matched. Celia honestly didn’t know why she couldn’t fall in love with Libby. She couldn’t seem to get past lusty infatuation. She tended to blame the situation on Libby, but now she was beginning to wonder if she herself was the problem.
Maggie felt enlightened. So that’s what they do, she thought. From time to time the mechanics had crossed her mind, but the visuals certainly exceeded any diagram.
Maggie tried to remember the last time she had sex. The sexual part of her relationship with Harold had certainly fizzled from what had never been great. In fact, she had seduced Harold the first time. After that she usually had to remind him that getting laid once in a while was part of the bargain.
She eventually taught him enough tricks to satisfy her, so she guessed it was an okay erotic life. But that display by the pool was enough to convince her that there was much more to it. She was curiously aroused.
She lay back on the bed, moving her hand down her breasts, feeling their firmness, stroking the nipples until they were erect. She ran her hand across and down her still taut stomach, finding her jutting hipbones. She had lost ten pounds since Harold died, and she hadn’t been fat to begin with. She touched the mound of hair and ran her fingers down the lips, gently parting them. Lifting her nightshirt, she caressed herself and put her fingers inside. She was wet, and entering was easy. She rolled on her stomach and thrust inside until she felt her body quiver. She fell into a deep sleep.
Voices from downstairs and sunlight dancing on her eyelids told her it was day. Maggie put on her robe and went downstairs for coffee. Libby sat at the table wearing one of Celia’s denim shirts, chatting amiably. Maggie observed her dark, disheveled hair and felt a slight pang of jealousy. Libby was attractive, the embodiment of rollicking sensuality and, from last night’s display, obviously very good at it. Maggie felt frumpy in comparison. Celia, however, did not look quite so glowing. She seemed tired and restless. Relief came in a smile when she saw Maggie.
“Coffee and juice?” Celia asked, starting to get up.
“I’ll get it,” Maggie said, wandering toward the kitchen.
“No, sit down. Let me,” Libby said, jumping up.
Maggie and Celia made eye contact with a mutual look of surprise.
“All right,” Maggie replied.
Libby was perfectly charming all morning. When she went off to shower before starting work, Maggie and Celia sat dazed by the turnabout behavior.
“What did you do to her? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that side of Libby.”
“You don’t want to know. Wait, it won’t last.”
Maggie thought suddenly, I know and wish I didn’t. She was puzzled to hear Celia say, “I’m really rather embarrassed about all this.”
“About what?”
“Being involved with someone so much younger. I feel like one of those dirty old men attracted to fresh young things. Do I look absurd? I want an honest answer.”
“No, you don’t look like a dirty old man. How much younger is she?”
“Fifteen years. I could be her mother.”
“Not unless it was a teenage pregnancy. If it doesn’t bother her, why should it bother you? I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“What would you have me worry about?” Celia chided.
“How you’re going to turn your cowardly widowed friend into a swinging single.”
Celia laughed. “We’ll see what we can do. Last I heard, you’d given up on all that.”
“Things change.”
“True, Libby was actually civil to you this morning.”
Libby was civil for a lot longer than Celia thought she was capable. She began to resemble the woman Celia had once known. Celia found herself having a difficult time not reciprocating, and f
or a time she let herself go with it. It wasn’t love, but it was companionship.
The three women got on. They went for walks, and a picnic. They went into town and found Maggie a desert hat. They fell into an easy rapport with one another. Being three helped their relationship.
But all blissful triangles come to an end. The way Celia and Maggie looked at each other and the way they were playfully chummy caught Libby’s attention, and she began to call Celia on it.
“She’s not even a dyke. I don’t see where you’re getting these ideas. We’re old friends for chrissakes.”
“She wouldn’t be the first woman to change her mind after being married. No one is safely heterosexual. No one is safely off-limits. And that includes Maggie.”
“I thought you liked her,” Celia lamely replied, wondering herself if she could be entirely trusted.
“Even if I like her, she can still steal my girlfriend.”
“No, Libby, you’re being absurd. Relax. I’m not fucking anyone but you. It’s nice and I like it. Don’t wreck it. Okay? You and only you. Platonic relationships are perfectly ordinary and possible.”
“All right, for now,” Libby replied, pointing at her from across the studio floor.
Celia looked at her lover quizzically. “What’s that? Don’t point at me. I’m too old to be reprimanded, especially by you. Since when are you in charge? When did I lose control of this relationship?” Celia smiled as she went across the room to nestle between Libby’s long legs. She kissed her neck and her breasts and unzipped her shorts. It wasn’t the first time Celia buried lust for one woman in the arms of another.
“What about Maggie?” Libby asked, suddenly shy about her lover’s advances.
“She’s on the phone with Amanda, and I’m sure it’s not pretty,” Celia said, undaunted in her pursuit. Amanda, from what Celia had deduced from various frantic phone calls, was a wordy one. Whom she got it from she would never know. Neither Harold nor Maggie were blabbermouths. Maybe Amanda did the talking for all three of them. Amanda had been checking in on her mother weekly ever since Maggie failed to return as scheduled. Amanda, it seemed, didn’t take highly to surprises.
Saxon Bennett - The Wish List Page 4
