Deva let out a sympathetic sigh. “Well, we’ll just ignore him if he is. What’s the worst he can do?”
“Recite scripture at us.” The automated lobby doors opened for them and they walked through, greeted by the gorgeous summer sun. “I’m so sick of people like him. Why can’t they just mind their own business? They act like every queer person in the world somehow threatens their sense of... I don’t even know what!”
Deva escorted her to the sidewalk. “Don’t get so worked up about it. Today’s your wedding day—nothing can spoil it.”
“Unless you run out on me.”
Deva laughed. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”
As they crossed the tree-lined street, sun dappled their finery and their flesh. Yvonne soaked up the warmth like a dozing kitten, at once calm and exhilarated by the prospect of saying “I do” in front of all their friends and family.
But once they’d set foot on the shady side of the street, apprehension snuck into her heart. She remembered the first time Deva had scooped up her hand and held it, the first time they’d walked home from church like that, together, as a unit. Yvonne remembered it so clearly because of the man at 129.
He’d eyed them from the garden as they walked by his house—those beady, dark eyes fixed on their fingers as they chatted and flirted. Yvonne still remembered how giddy she’d felt as she set her head on Deva’s shoulder for the first time, when suddenly a rumbling voice cut through their bliss.
“You! You gays—why don’t you stay downtown with the rest of the sinners? The suburbs are for good, God-fearing people. You’re the reason I had to find another church!”
Yvonne had whipped around to face him, too stunned to speak. Deva only said, “What?”
“That church at the end of the street—I went there from the time I moved into this house in 1973. And then you gays convince that woman minister to perform your sinful ceremonies and force me out.”
“Sinful ceremonies?” Deva asked. “What ceremonies?”
“Gay marriage!” Mr. Rosetti threw his hands in the air, over-emphasising the simple words.
Yvonne laughed, even though she was shocked and taken aback. She laughed because she’d been picturing this “sinful” gay ceremony as some orgiastic devil worship. But marriage? He was walking about marriage?
“You think gay marriage is sinful?” Deva asked.
His eyes bugged. “It goes against God!”
“How?” Deva’s chest puffed a bit, the way it always did when she got into a battle of words. “How can love possibly go against God? God is love.”
“Hippies,” he spat. “Hippie queers, drive me from my church—my church! Not yours.”
“Come on, Deva. Let’s just go.” Yvonne had yanked her by the arm, pulled her down the sidewalk as she railed against the homophobe at 129.
The first hurt felt just as fresh as every other insult he’d heaped on since.
As they approached his house en route to their wedding, Yvonne’s heart clenched. Please, God, don’t let him be outside!
And he wasn’t.
Praise the Lord!
Wait a second... what was that?
As they approached Mr. Rosetti’s garden, a shape in the dirt caught Yvonne’s eye. It started on the lawn and then stretched across the marigolds. Oh no... it wasn’t... was it? Yes, it was... it was a body!
She tightened her grip on Deva’s hand, but Deva was two steps ahead, climbing up the rock garden and over the slight incline between the sidewalk and the lawn. “Mr. Rosetti? Are you okay?”
When Deva fell to her knees, Yvonne shrieked. “You’re gonna get your tux all dirty!”
Like Deva cared about clothes! “Come on, get up here. Help me roll him over.”
“Is he... dead?” Yvonne whispered the word, like she’d be inviting the grim reaper if she said it too loudly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Would you just get up here and give me a hand?”
Yvonne inched two steps up the driveway without taking her eyes off Mr. Rosetti’s prone body. “But if he is dead, there’s no point getting all dirty trying to revive him.”
Deva’s eyes blazed. “Stop acting like a child. You’re a grown woman. Time to behave that way.”
Interrupting her wedding day to roll a homophobic corpse? What was the point? If Mr. Rosetti hated gay people so much, he probably wouldn’t want a pair of lesbians putting their hands all over him, anyway.
But Yvonne could only hold out so long before her better judgement kicked in. She stepped from the driveway onto the lawn and her heels slumped into the soft ground. When she took another step, the shoes remained wedged in the dirt. “Damn it.”
“Help me roll him,” Deva said, her voice firm and commanding.
“How?” Yvonne didn’t want to touch the old guy, but she also didn’t want to admit that to Deva.
“Just help his head along while I turn his body, okay?”
“Okay.” Yvonne wasn’t going to argue, at this stage. She held her hands near his hair, but couldn’t bring herself to touch him—not until Deva heaved his shoulder. Then, Yvonne worried that if she didn’t do anything, the old man’s neck might snap.
“Good job,” Deva said, though Yvonne didn’t feel like she was contributing much.
She closed her eyes as her hands found his head. Somehow, when Deva turned him, he ended up with his head on her thigh. She screamed when she looked down to find his face covered in dirt.
“Brush it off,” Deva said.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” Yvonne tried to escape, only to discover Deva had rolled the man onto her bulky wedding dress. “Dev, I’m stuck!”
“It’s okay, babe.” Deva grabbed the lace train of her veil and used it to brush soil from the old man’s skin.
“What are you doing?” Yvonne shrieked.
“In case we need to do CPR.”
Yvonne’s throat squeaked. “I’m not putting my mouth on his mouth!”
“I don’t think you’ll have to.” Deva place a hand on his chest and remained quiet for a moment. “He’s breathing.”
“Oh, thank God!”
“Mr. Rosetti?” Deva tapped his cheek, then smacked it. “Mr. Rosetti, can you hear me?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. Get out your phone.”
“What for?”
“To call 911.”
“Oh.” Yvonne wanted to put up some argument, but she couldn’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t call—well, aside from the fact that they were late for their own wedding. She reached into her restrictive wedding gown and pulled out her phone. Her fingers fumbled as she punched in the number and waited for something to happen.
A woman’s voice came on the line and asked, “What is the nature of your emergency?”
Yvonne looked to Deva. “What do I say?”
“You know what to say,” Deva told her.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Our neighbour... we found him on the lawn. He’s not... well, he’s breathing, but he won’t wake up.”
“He’s unconscious?”
“I don’t know! I’m not a doctor!”
“Is he awake?” the operator asked.
“No.”
“Does he smell like he’s been drinking?”
Yvonne sniffed him. “No, he smells like plants. He was working in the garden.”
The 911 operator asked where to send the ambulance and Yvette gave her Mr. Rosetti’s address. The operator then rolled out instructions that fell out of Yvonne’s brain the moment she’d repeated them to Deva. Do this, do that. Check this, check that. And then something stuck: “Reach into his mouth and make sure his tongue isn’t blocking his airway.”
Deva looked up at the phone, her eyes wide as saucers.
Yvonne shrugged.
Neither of them did anything. Where were finger cots when you needed them?
He was breathing. His chest rose and fell. They didn’t rea
lly need to put their fingers in his mouth, did they?
“Have you done it yet?” the operator asked.
“My wife is doing it,” Yvonne said. “Or, not my wife. My fiancée. We were on our way to our wedding when we found him.”
“Oh,” the operator replied, hesitantly, like she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. “Well, congratulations. The ambulance should be arriving in a matter of minutes.”
“He’s a terrible person,” Yvonne said. “He hates us. He hates lesbians, hates gay people. He thinks we go against God. And look at this! It’s our wedding day and instead of standing up in church we’re shoving our fingers in his mouth.”
“Well, not really,” Deva whispered.
“You’re very likely saving his life,” the 911 operator said. “You’re doing a good thing.”
Yvonne’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. She choked them back. She didn’t want to cry on her wedding day, not for any reason.
“Now,” the operator went on, “if your neighbour starts vomiting you’ll need to dig into his throat and pull out any stomach contents so he doesn’t choke. Are you prepared to do that?”
Deva obviously heard what the operator asked, because her jaw dropped. For a moment, she just stared at Yvonne, stared at the phone. Deva was the strong one, the ready-for-anything partner, but would she go so far as to dig vomit from a homophobe’s throat?
“Sure!” Yvonne said. “Why not?”
Deva burst out in silent laughter, chuckling so hard her shoulders shook.
Yvonne egged her on. “Of course we’ll remove Mr. Rosetti’s regurgitated stomach contents on our wedding day. We’s good people, over here.”
Deva fell to the side, rolling on Mr. Rosetti’s lawn and laughing her ass off. Nothing spelled joy like Deva’s laughter. It made Yvonne smile so hard her jaw hurt.
The 911 operator didn’t seem quite so amused. “Is the patient breathing?”
Yvonne watched his chest rise and fall. “Yup.”
“And he’s still unconscious?”
This time, Yvonne shouted his name. When he didn’t react, she slapped him in the face. Still nothing, but damn that felt good. “He’s out like a light.”
“The ambulance is on its way. I’ll need you to stay with him until the paramedics arrive.”
“Sure.” Yvonne cast her gaze in Deva’s direction. Something had caught her wife-to-be’s attention. Yvonne turned to find a woman with a dog, a man holding a small child on her bicycle, and a group of joggers standing on the sidewalk, their attentive gazes fixed on the scene like they were watching some kind of live-action reality show.
Yvonne didn’t know how to feel—like a hero? Like a star? She didn’t feel that way. She was only doing this because Deva told her to.
“What happened?” one of the joggers asked, breaking the fourth wall.
Deva responded. “We don’t know. We found him passed out in the garden. He’s breathing, but we can’t wake him up.”
“You should have left him there,” said the woman with the dog. “That guy’s a jerk. He deserves to die.”
When she walked off, Yvonne exchanged knowing glances with Deva. In that woman’s place, Yvonne probably would have said the same thing. She still wasn’t sure why she felt good about helping someone who’d never been anything but nasty to her. Maybe it was just the right thing to do—help him because he’s human and he’s in trouble.
“I hear voices,” the 911 operator said. “Has the patient regained consciousness?”
“No, it’s just people from the neighbourhood. They don’t like this guy any more than we do.”
The operator sounded like she was about to say something, but then fell silent.
Deva looked up over the assembled crowd as sirens rang out from the main street.
“The ambulance?” Yvonne asked.
Deva nodded, and signalled to the crowd to get out of the way. The man and child moved a smidge, but the joggers remained exactly where they were, like they just had to find out how the show would end.
The ambulance roared onto their street, tearing toward the crowd. Yvonne could just see it knocking those joggers over like bowling pins. Then they’d end up with two emergency situations on their hands.
The joggers shifted as a pair of paramedics spilled out of the vehicle. They raced up the driveway, and then onto the lawn. A black man and Asian woman, both in bulky blue uniforms, lifted Mr. Rosetti from Yvonne’s grass-stained wedding gown.
“We’ll take over from here,” the woman said, shooing Yvonne and Deva away.
Yvonne had grown so accustomed to the weight of Mr. Rosetti’s head on her thigh that it felt weird to be without it. “We found him unconscious on the lawn, here. He’s breathing, but we couldn’t wake him up.”
“We’ll take over,” the man repeated, driving the point home.
Deva helped Yvonne to her feet, and they inched down the rock garden together. “Wait, my shoes.”
One of the paramedics was half sitting on them. Deva snuck dangerously close to his butt and plucked them out of the earth.
“I thought they’d want us to help or something,” Yvonne said. “Or I thought they’d at least ask us for information.”
“I guess they got it from dispatch,” Deva replied.
Yvonne looked down at the phone in her hand, and then brought it to her ear. “The ambulance is here. The paramedics have taken over.”
The operator offered a word of thanks, but that was that. Why hadn’t she wished them a happy wedding day before hanging up? Maybe she had to stick to a script or maybe she’d forgotten already, but it would have been nice.
Another paramedic came out of nowhere, clearing the sidewalk by asking the crowd to give them space. Yvonne let Deva drag her away, but she said, “I want to know what’s happening. I want to know what’s wrong with him.”
“Me too, but we’ve got a wedding to get to, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Yvonne smiled as one of the joggers asked, “Are you two getting married.”
Well, duh! Why else would they be dressed in a bridal gown and a tux?
Deva said, “Yeah, we’re getting married right now, right down the street. Want to come?”
Yvonne laughed, but Deva was serious.
“No, that’s okay,” the joggers said. “We don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing. We’re inviting you.” Deva looked from the group of joggers to the man with the girl on a bicycle. “Everybody loves a wedding. And we’re all neighbours. Might as well.”
The dad looked to his little girl and shrugged. “Want to watch the heroes get married?”
Heroes! Yvonne’s heart swelled.
The little girl chewed her hair and bashfully nodded. She whispered to her father, “They’re all dirty.”
“That’s because they just saved a man’s life.”
One of the joggers said, “If those two are going, I wouldn’t mind coming along.”
“Me too,” another one said.
“Yeah, I love weddings.”
Yvonne looked to Deva and asked, “Should we go home and change first?”
“We’re late enough as it is.” Deva gave her an obvious once over—her dress was a disaster, but so was Deva’s tux. “And think about it: we’ll always have a story to tell.”
“True.” Yvonne dusted a bit of dirt from her sullied white dress. “Better get a move on, I guess.”
So, hand in hand, they headed for church—followed by a train of joggers and a girl on a bicycle kicking up the rear. Yvonne would like to say she never looked back, but that wasn’t entirely true. She did look, to see if the paramedics were carrying Mr. Rosetti into that ambulance. As much as she despised the guy, she couldn’t help wondering what happened to him, why he’d lost consciousness. Maybe he’d seen the lesbian brides marching up the sidewalk and fainted dead away.
They’d probably find out thought the grapevine at some point. Anyway, they’d devoted enough of their wedding day
to him. The rest of the day was all theirs.
Squeezing her bride-to-be’s hand, Yvonne said, “I love you, Dev.”
“I love you too.” Then she sang, “Going to the chapel and we’re... grungy and grass-stained...”
When Yvonne laughed, Deva leaned in and planted a sweet kiss on her lips. As they walked together in the sunlight, the crowd behind them cheered.
The End
ABOUT GISELLE RENARDE
Giselle Renarde is a queer Canadian, avid volunteer, and contributor to more than 100 short story anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica, and Best Lesbian Romance. Ms Renarde has written dozens of juicy books, including Anonymous, Seven Kisses, Bali Nights, Ondine, and Nanny State. Her book The Red Satin Collection won Best Transgender Romance in the 2012 Rainbow Awards. Giselle lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head.
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If you enjoyed Sweet Lesbian Love Stories, you might also enjoy:
The Red Satin Collection
By Giselle Renarde
Winner of the 2012 Rainbow Awards
BEST TRANSGENDER ROMANCE
Coming home means coming out...
This is a Christmas of firsts for girlfriends Maisie and Regan. Maisie hasn't returned to their hometown since beginning her transition from male to female. Regan hasn't spoken to her hard-drinking Cree father in twice that time. Will family drama, secrets, and new arrivals strengthen their bond or tear Regan and Maisie apart?
The Red Satin Collection is a transgender lesbian holiday romance that includes content suitable for adult readers only.
Read an excerpt from The Red Satin Collection:
“Is mom home?” Maisie asked, before taking a step forward.
“Oh yeah, for sure.” After another moment of silent, awe-struck staring, Mitts turned her head and yelled, “Mom!”
“What?” a disembodied voice hollered back. “I’m on the toilet.”
Mitts turned back to Maisie. “Mom’s on the throne.”
“So I heard.”
Another voice joined the conversation. “Oh my god, Mitts, do not walk by the upstairs bathroom!” It was Maisie’s second sister, Kayla, holding her nose as she descended the stairs. “Jesus, the whole hallway reeks to...”
Sweet Lesbian Love Stories Page 8
