Chapter Eight
As the wheels of the plane hit the ground, Maggie was jolted from her daydream. She was remembering the rainstorm, the electricity in the air, the brilliant burning sunset, the black sky, the green clawlike fronds of thrashing palms as the wind caught them, the last night she lay in Celia’s arms. They had made love during the storm, and when the rain stopped the air had smelled so clean.
Maggie sat patiently while the other travelers scrambled for their overhead luggage. She was second to last getting off the plane. She felt no hurry. Instead, she pictured her soul stretching long across the miles between Phoenix and St. Paul. She knew her mother and her daughter sat anxiously waiting and watching each woman’s face as she came off the plane, wondering when hers would appear.
Maggie felt instantly claustrophobic, closed in by her family, escorted home like a truant schoolgirl soon to be persuaded of the futility of her wild ways. Generations of mediocrity, Maggie thought. Like mother, like daughter, except this daughter was breaking away. Amanda would marry out of a sense of duty and fear. Maggie had been there. She had left passion to others. But no longer. Would they read it in her face? Feel it in her touch? Only the days would tell.
When she spotted Maggie, Amanda beamed with her success. Her mother breathed a sigh of relief. Maggie kissed them both, took their hands, and followed them to the baggage carousel, politely and accurately responding to their questions. Yes, the flight was fine. Everything was fine, for this evening. But Maggie could see it in their eyes. Amanda had been telling stories.
She pictured them having lunch and discussing the proposed mental state of the truant. They knew where they stood, decided upon a plan of attack, and joined forces against this unknown enemy. Were they measuring her now? Deciding when to probe, when to seduce, when to engage in battle?
Maggie steeled herself against the onslaught. She was outnumbered, perhaps would be outmaneuvered, but she had her own agenda. They could not interfere with a widow’s desire to sell a house, liquidate assets, and move to the southwest. Everyone got her share, and Harold had been explicit with the details. Their only hope was coercion, but Maggie knew that love, passion, and drive are more powerful than contrived guilt. She felt strong. It was all decided long before her daughter’s and mother’s lunches, dinners, teas, and plots.
The city lights whirled and blurred as the white Lincoln sedan sped across the Mississippi River. Skyscrapers were sprinkled with lights. She had made the drive from the airport to Minneapolis more times than she could remember, driving Harold back from some medical conference in a far-off city.
The sky was heavy with impending rain. Maggie felt it coming, and with it a stuffy depression. She hated the dreary rain in the Midwest.
She didn’t want to be sad in front of Amanda and her mother. They would think she was weakening, that the stress of going away and now coming back was too much for her. She would never give them that satisfaction. She couldn’t afford to, so she swallowed her silent, wracking sob.
“Come for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll talk,” her mother said.
Maggie suppressed the urge to ask, Talk about what? Instead, she smiled her response, nodding her head.
“Do you want me to stay?” Amanda asked.
“No, I think buying the plane ticket was enough. I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Amanda looked at her, puzzled and uncertain of Maggie’s intent.
“All right.”
After they left, Maggie made herself a pot of tea. Staring into her cupboards she suddenly hated her crockery. It was so plain, neat, refined, and without character. She wondered at the woman who purchased it. The whole house seemed foreign. Maybe Olivia was right about having more than one life in a lifetime.
She slung her suitcase on the bed and began to unpack, making little shrines of the rocks, sticks, and pottery she had brought back. Shrines to remind, shrines to worship, shrines to keep her focused. She found a box in the garage and neatly stacked her old dishes away and replaced them with ones she and Celia had made.
She took photographs from the summer and taped them to the front of the fridge. She rolled up the Oriental rug that had graced the living room floor for years and replaced it with a Navajo rug that Celia had bought her. Tomorrow she would go to the garden center and buy some cacti. She would get through this, and she would go back.
She wandered around the house like a guest. Her furniture was all well-made, upper-middle class, eastern. Dark mahogany, brocade floral prints, drapes with sheers, heavy Oriental rugs, tasteful knickknacks, and appropriate prints all breathed safe, suburban attitudes. No, her possessions wouldn’t be hard to part with. They weren’t her; they never had been.
The sheets were clean and cold. She hated sleeping alone. Children and women without lovers slept alone. Rain beat against the window and Maggie pulled the comforter up around her neck. She was cold and scared. What was Celia doing now? Was she awake, looking at the ceiling, thinking of her, feeling lost and alone? Or was she glad for the space, relieved not to have to think of another?
She had been relieved sometimes when Harold was gone. She enjoyed being alone to wander, to read, to nap, to not think about what to have for dinner. It was like being recreationally single, only you didn’t have to worry about not having someone. Your someone would come home eventually.
She had felt guilty for not missing him as she should, for the little pitch she felt when he was back and she had to start thinking in two’s again when one was so much simpler. Did Celia feel the same way? Maggie didn’t.
She was drowning in love. She prayed that their love wouldn’t end, that both of them could make it work, and that all the things they hadn’t found in others could be found in each other.
She got out of bed and walked to the window, staring out into the blackness. Love is wondrous and dangerous. Her summer had been so full. The fall would be so empty. How quickly could she get out of here and back to Celia? She knew the answer: Not quickly enough. She jumped when the phone rang.
“Hello,” said Maggie, trying to keep the inquisitiveness out of her voice.
“What’s wrong?” Celia asked.
“Nothing. How are you? God, I miss you already.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I’m busy wandering around the house, plotting my escape, and missing you. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Try to get some sleep, though, otherwise you’ll end up comatose.”
“And then I’ll be easier prey for the vultures.”
“Exactly. Speaking of vultures, how are they?”
“Full of strategies, I can feel it, the hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck stuff. But I’m all right. I am going to get through this.”
“I know you are.”
Maggie was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, reading. The doorbell jarred her concentration. She got up, puzzled. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She cautiously opened the door to a delivery man who held a box and asked her to sign.
The box contained a dozen yellow roses. The card read, “No new girlfriend. Eagerly awaiting your arrival. Love, Celia.” Maggie smiled, remembering having chided Celia about finding another girlfriend in her absence. She knew it was absurd at the time, but she needed reassurance and Celia had given it.
Smiling, she put the roses in a vase on the kitchen table and stuck the card in the center of the burst of yellow. Love with a sense of humor. Maggie liked that.
Her relationship with Harold could best be described as somber. Being back in the house made her keenly aware of the differences. She would take tears and laughter any day over silence and pursed lips. She was grateful she had the opportunity to experience the difference.
Later in the day, Amanda found her going through Harold’s desk. Maggie hadn’t realized how intact she had left everything. It was as if Harold could walk through that door at any moment. She was relieved he couldn’t. It would have broken his heart to know that the tw
o women he loved most loved each other. It probably would have killed him. Being left for another woman almost had killed him. What would he have done if she hadn’t been there? What would she have done if he hadn’t needed her?
Harold and Maggie had both been amputees that managed to form some mismatched whole. If he hadn’t died, she would not have her new life, her right life. She wondered how many other people wandered around living the wrong life, not consciously knowing but sensing that some crucial ingredient was missing, and didn’t know where to look.
“What are you doing?” Amanda asked.
“Sorting, thinking, trying to figure out what to do with this stuff,” Maggie replied, waving her arm at the walls lined with medical books.
“Why not leave them where they are?” Amanda asked.
“What, and try to sell the house to a doctor?”
“You’re still thinking of selling the house?”
“Does that surprise you? It was the reason I came back.”
“I thought you were back to stay.”
“Amanda, stop playing ignorant. You know as well as I do that I came back to clear up loose ends and that I’m going back. I made that abundantly clear when you visited, and I haven’t changed my mind. Let’s go have tea and talk about more pleasant things. You need to catch me up on your life.”
Amanda allowed herself to be led into the kitchen where Maggie set about making tea. Amanda looked at the roses and picked up the card. Maggie’s stomach took a quick turn.
Amanda read the card and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s fairly self-explanatory.”
“What does she want with you?”
“My body, can’t you see?” Maggie said, sashaying a hip forward, a hand behind her neck.
Amanda did not laugh. She looked perturbed. “Very funny. What is going on with you two?”
“Haven’t you guessed by now?” Maggie knew she was dodging the question, but coming out was never easy. She’d heard the horror stories.
“No, I haven’t done any guessing. I want you to tell me, for once, what is going on, what happened while you were down there. Why are you so different now?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. I have a right to know.”
“And what right is that?” Maggie said, annoyed at being suddenly cornered and pressed.
“I am your daughter.”
“That you are,” Maggie replied, looking defiantly at her. I know what to say, I know what I am.
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?” Amanda declared, her fear of the answer written in her eyes.
Maggie put her hand on the countertop, her thumb running back and forth across the hard edge. “Yes, I’m sleeping with her. I love Celia, and I intend to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“You know what that makes you, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be taking this up?”
“I wasn’t aware that sexuality had an age limit.”
“I’ll have to tell Gram.”
“Tell whomever you’d like.”
“You’re not going to go about flaunting this, are you?”
“You seem to have no trouble deciding who to tell. I certainly have more of a prerogative than you. After all, it isn’t your affair unless you make it so. Just once, Amanda, think about the consequences of your actions.”
“That advice would be better spent on yourself,” Amanda said. “After all, I’m not the one who turned into an irresponsible pervert after her husband died.”
“She called you a what?” Celia asked, pressing the phone close and wishing it was Maggie’s face and not just the tease of her voice.
“An irresponsible pervert. I miss you. I feel so disorganized and helpless. I don’t know where to begin.”
“I miss you, too. You’ll get it together. Find an estate broker to sell the stuff and find a lesbian or gay realtor. Minneapolis is full of them.”
“Why do I need a lesbian or gay realtor?”
“Support the family, the community, and all that. Besides, it saves a lot of strange or embarrassing questions. You’ll be more comfortable.”
“How do I find one?”
“We did send you off woefully unprepared, Maggie. You’re a babe in the woods. Go to the women’s bookstore by Loring Park. I can’t remember the name of it. They’ll have the paper with a listing of all community-sponsored businesses.”
“I know where that store is. I used to drive by it when I dropped Amanda off at school.”
“See, it’ll work out.”
“You’re right.”
“Now hurry up and get going. And get back here, dammit, before I have to come and get you.”
“Would you?” Maggie teased.
“You know I would.”
Maggie had never been in a lesbian bookstore. She’d driven past it the entire time Amanda had gone to community college. It was funny to live in a place your whole life and only know a few parts of it. Ironically, she’d gotten married around the corner at the Basilica.
Maggie parked the car and locked it. She felt scared but she stopped herself from setting the car alarm. Two young women sat drinking coffee at the café adjacent to the store. She suddenly felt conspicuous, driving an expensive, sleek BMW, easing it into the small parking space. It was a car with attitude, and it wasn’t wasted on the women who watched her walk across the street.
She felt like the doctor’s wife again, moneyed and protected. She’d sell the car and buy a Jeep or something sturdy. There was the Mercedes, too. God, there was a lot of property to be divested. House, cars, furniture. She had a life to trade in.
She tried to walk nonchalantly through the door. A string of brass bells sounded her arrival, and she straightened her shoulders to appear confident. She knew she was not convincing.
“New in town? Haven’t seen you before. Welcome. Anything I can help you with?” asked a small woman with short, dark, spiky hair and a zillion earrings, including one in her nose.
Maggie smiled. She tried not to stare but yet make eye contact at the same time. Celia was right. She was a babe in the woods. With her it was easy to be confident and secure. Alone here, it was different.
“I was looking for one of the lesbian and gay newspapers.”
“They don’t come out again until Thursday. We’re all out at the moment. I’ll hold one back for you when they come out if you like. Sometimes they go fast, especially in this neighborhood. Center of the community, I call it. What’s your name?”
“Maggie. Maggie Lawrence.”
“All right, Maggie, consider it done. Anything else you’re interested in? We’ve got a bit of everything.”
“I could use some fiction,” Maggie said, looking around and thinking that the bookshelves at home had become slim pickings.
“Highbrow or trash?”
“More on the literary side, but not dry. A good story.”
“Okay follow me.”
Maggie watched her stroll from behind the counter. She wore long black underwear underneath cutoff jeans and a gold tight-fitting leotard top. She must be all of twenty-five. Maggie found herself admiring her backside. It felt strange sometimes to appreciate women’s bodies, their curves and angles, their soft skin, their gentle touch.
The young woman smiled coyly when she caught Maggie scoping her out. She didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she looked interested. I’m old enough to be your mother. Of course, that never deterred Libby. But I am an attached woman, Maggie thought, smiling in a proud, secure way.
They went through the books and Maggie selected some two dozen, plus she had made a new friend, Sam. Picking out books had led to several conversations, and the two were going out for coffee when Maggie returned on Thursday to pick up her paper.
Walking out of the store, Maggie wasn’t sure how she had come by the coffee engagement. Sam had decided that since Maggie was new to the community she needed a tou
r guide. There was something about being “family,” as everyone called it, that pulled people together. Whatever it was, it was good.
Having gotten over that hurdle, she prepared herself for the next one, which was dinner with her mother and daughter. Maggie was certain Amanda had spilled her findings in horror to Gram Josephine. The two had always been close. Maggie had never been close to either of them.
She had done all the things mothers were supposed to do, but Amanda had probably sensed that Maggie’s heart wasn’t in it. Children seem to have a sixth sense; they register the slight in their burgeoning psyches and serve it up later at various grown-up smorgasbords. Tonight would be one of those smorgasbords, with Amanda deciding which delight to serve up first. Maggie cringed at the thought.
It was the middle of dinner when Josephine’s soup spoon abruptly hit the side of the china bowl making a clinking noise. Amanda smiled; Maggie blanched.
“You’re a what?” Josephine asked, wiping what appeared to be perspiration from her upper lip.
“She’s a lesbian, Gram, as in sleeps with women.”
“But you are, were, a happily married woman. You’re a mother and you’re middle-aged. How can you be one of those?”
“A lesbian. It’s not unheard of. I did intend to tell you in a more subtle way,” Maggie said, pursing her lips and cocking her head in Amanda’s direction. “It just happened and now I plan to deal with whatever changing one’s sexuality entails, aside from therapy.”
Josephine closed her mouth. She had been about to suggest that.
“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t you have had some sign of those feelings toward women sooner?”
“I probably did. I just didn’t know what they were. After this all happened, lots of loose ends started to make sense to me. Mother, I’ve never felt this whole or happy before now.”
“You’ve been brainwashed. Down there hanging out with all those funky women, a cult of lesbos in the middle of the desert. I’m sure if you stayed here you’d change your mind and give up this insanity,” Amanda screeched.
Saxon Bennett - The Wish List Page 12
