Coming Attractions

by Bobbi Marolt

  “Teeny tiny. At least for my liking.” Helen gave Stacey a quick kiss on her lips.

  “Nice mouth. I can’t think of a better way to wake up.”

  “You have no imagination.”

  “That’s why you write and I run a bar.” Stacey fell backward, onto the mattress. “Go away now.”

  “Get up, you bum.”

  Trying her best to rouse Stacey, Helen bounced and shook the bed, but hadn’t expected to find herself suddenly flipped onto her back with Stacey straddling her and pinning her hands behind her head.

  “I like this advantage.” Stacey beamed as she looked down at Helen.

  “You’re the one without clothes. I could have my way with you.”

  “Take me. Break me. Make me a woman.” She released Helen’s hands and rolled to her back. “Please?”

  “You know, you really are a pig sometimes.” Helen slapped Stacey on the hip, but fully expected a comment of that nature from her. “It isn’t any wonder you don’t have a real relationship.”

  “I have lovers.”

  “But you never love.” Helen stood and straightened her clothing.

  “Look who’s talking. You’ve been romancing Chelsea forever.” She took quick steps to the dresser, grabbed a T-shirt, and put it on.

  “That’s different.”

  Stacey wagged a finger in front of Helen. “No no no no no. In our separate ways, we’ve locked our hearts.” She spied the fresh orange juice and drank it quickly. “Thanks.” She picked up the mug of coffee and Helen followed her out to a Plexiglas balcony. “So, Blondie, what’s going on? We caught you on the eleven o’clock news last night. You looked pissed and petrified.” She propped her feet on the railing and placed shades over her eyes. “And how about that Roland? You should have lip-locked her right there. She’d have passed out in an instant.”

  “Jan was never a good kisser, anyway. I felt like a damn hypocrite. Stace, I want to come out and I can’t do it alone. You can help.”

  “How?”

  Stacey’s establishment, Xanadu, was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and was a popular hangout for the gay and lesbian elite.

  “With all of those gay celebrities you rub elbows with at your bar. Think of how much weight it would carry if they could be persuaded to come out as a group.”

  “Are you serious? I know! I’ll hold a debutante ball for all lesbians. You’ll be the next”—she stressed the next word lasciviously—“coming attractions.”

  Helen shook her head but giggled the tiniest bit. “Do you ever stop?” In spite of herself, she loved Stacey and she’d have her no other way.

  “Never. Cheap swine, I am. Always the animal.” Always the colorfully correct dyke, she smiled proudly and adjusted her lavender sunglasses.

  “In a sense, that’s exactly what I want, but why limit it to women?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Stacey looked over the top of her eyewear at Helen. “Oh. You’re serious. Okay. I’m listening.”

  “If they would combine their talents and present a knockout show for one night only, where each would state their sexual preference, we could come out as a group. I would be their MC, of course. Simple.”

  Stacey abruptly pulled off her shades and stared at Helen. “You need a sedative. They’ll laugh you out of the room.”

  “You aren’t laughing.”

  “Your idea is preposterous, but it is something the community desperately needs,” she said and put her sunglasses back on. “A star-studded event might help dispel some of the misconceptions of our community.”

  “Exactly. How many gay celebrities do you know?”

  “Close? Fifteen maybe.” Stacey rubbed her chin. “Some have big balls and might jump at a joint effort.”

  Helen’s enthusiasm heightened. “Great. Can we use your club to get a group together for an initial discussion?”

  “No. We’ll reel them in here. They’ll be more comfortable and there won’t be any outside ears. When do you want me to herd them for a get-together?”

  “The beginning of the new year.”

  “That’s about twelve weeks away. Plenty of time to plan.” She drank some of the now-cold coffee and grinned at Helen. Lots of teeth and a mischievous smile. “I read your note to Green Eyes. Any response?”

  Helen had become so caught up in their conversation that she’d forgotten that part of her life. Or maybe the woman wasn’t even a part, only an irritation.

  “She didn’t show and I’m embarrassed. I sounded so desperate.” Helen shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “You sell yourself short.” Stacey opened a window panel and leaned on the railing. She looked to the street below. “Maybe she was out of town or didn’t read your column.”

  Helen didn’t comment. “I had a dream about you last night.”

  Stacey perked up. “Did you finally sleep with me?”

  “Yes,” she played back. “On top of both towers of the World Trade Center.”

  Stacey looked south, but the landmark structures were masked by lesser, but closer buildings. “Hmm. A little windy, but your choice could be interesting.”

  “My dream was you handed me a green drink and told me it was what I needed.”

  “Something with Midori, maybe,” Stacey said, nodding. “Something right out of Oz.” She turned to Helen. “That might match those elusive eyes. I’ll be right back.” After several minutes, she returned and handed her a color photograph. “Here’s your drink. Take it slowly. No, in your case, you might want to chug that baby.”

  Helen reached for the photograph and her mouth dropped open. There was the jogger and Stacey cheek-to-cheek, grinning like drunken sailors at the camera. Before she spoke, she gazed long at her would-be assassin. Was that the woman who would reduce her to a puddle of pleasure? The one who would tear down thick and tall defenses?

  “You know her?” Helen leaned forward on her chair and stared at the photo. “You knew who I was talking about and kept your mouth shut? Jesus, Stacey.”

  “After hearing your description of her, I figured she was the one. You know I don’t play matchmaker, but I’ll stray from my policy a bit.” She returned to her seat. “I don’t want you to mourn the dead forever. Her name is Cory Chamberlain and she flew to Boston early yesterday. Otherwise, my bet is she would have met you at the restaurant.”

  “Cory Chamberlain,” Helen said, and liked how the name felt when spoken. “What can you tell me about her?”

  Stacey propped her feet up again. “Just about everything, but I won’t say another word. That’s for you to find out.”

  “Just answer one question: Do you have her phone number?”

  Stacey breathed a heavy sigh, hoisted herself from the chair, walked back inside, and returned with the Manhattan directory. She dropped it not so casually onto the table. Helen jumped from the thud.

  “Yes, and you do, too.”

  Helen considered the dense volume of pages in front of her. She refrained from touching it, as she had done with the box, but she knew that it held something that grabbed her attention and that was her fear of it. She estimated the weight of the book, and tried to guess on what page she would locate Cory’s name. What page? Which seven numbers would bring Helen closer to giving life to the elusive “yes?” Reluctantly, she touched the cover but didn’t browse the register.

  “Still with me, Blondie?”

  Helen looked away from the book. “Do you think I’m silly?”

  “No. Things happen. Emotions stir and can fly into fitful directions. Sometimes that’s good and sometimes it isn’t. Cory’s a damn fine-looking woman and she’s obviously interested in you. She’s charming, knows who she is, and she knows what she wants. You’ll have to determine if the direction is good or bad.”

  “She sounds too good to be true. There has to be a catch.”

  “There could be. Somewhere down the line there are bugs in all of us.”

  Helen gave her a puzzled look. “And what are my b
ugs?”

  “You’ve made mourning a profession and you annoy people in their sleep.”

  Helen put the corner of the photograph to her lips. “You’ve placed a shroud of mystery around her.”

  Stacey stretched and yawned loudly. “There’s no mystery to Cory. Let’s talk on Wednesday about your party. You’ll have my undivided attention then.”

  “Do you think your friends might consider my idea, or are you patronizing me?”

  She stood and pulled Helen up by her hands. Stacey hugged her tightly. “Don’t even think about your party. Just go home and call that dame.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “No, Blondie, don’t think. Just do it.”

  Chapter Five

  Helen tried to convince herself that her anxiety was a girl thing, that time right before her period when she possessed enough energy to swim the Hudson and East rivers while towing a Circle Line Cruise ship. She ignored the fact that her hormones had ceased raging a week ago.

  Surely a woman who maintained a teasing distance wasn’t a cause for concern. It didn’t matter that Helen thought “attractive” and “great breasts” each time they met. No, because Stacey’s friend was toying with her. Dyke or not, that Chamberlain woman couldn’t possibly be thinking the same things. Apart from all of the commotion, Helen wasn’t on the market anyway.

  To divert her restlessness, she frantically cleaned her apartment, labeled every neglected computer disk, alphabetically categorized her video collection, washed her hair, shaved her legs, and gave herself a complete manicure. With the final coat drying, the time was still only six o’clock.

  “Now what? Clean the oven?” Not in this lifetime. “Paint the walls or shampoo the carpet?”

  Perhaps she should burn her copy of Katherine Forrest’s An Emergence of Green. That’s what all that frantic cleaning was about, wasn’t it? She wanted to forget that the color existed and forget that Cory Chamberlain was right there in the phone book. Right there. Stacey had sent her home with the photograph and she promptly shoved it into her own phone book. A face, a name, and now somewhere within those inches of paper was a phone number.

  Helen sat restless in her chair and looked across the room to the Manhattan directory at the bottom of her telephone table. The intrusion seemed vulgar to her. Vulgar because it compelled her to snare the book, devour the number, and have it spit out again through her fingertips. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

  “Hello? Cory Chamberlain? It’s Helen. Would you mind too terribly if I kissed your breasts for a wonderfully long time? Perhaps I could interest you in a playful romp through the sheets. What’s that? Yes, I like that, too. Great. Meet me ’round the corner in half an hour.”

  Helen laughed at the absurdity of her imaginary conversation. She didn’t chase women; she chased good columns and those wonderful Reubens from the New York Deli. Writing was safe; food was temporary. There was no loss, no death, nothing more serious to worry about than occasional retractions and lethal calories.

  She fidgeted. She drummed her fingers on the fine oak grain of her Boston rocker; she tapped her foot to an unheard melody. She glared at the book and her blood tingled. The same tingle she had felt eons ago when she smoked cigarettes and knew when her nicotine level was dropping. It was as though her blood had turned into ants crawling through her, and it was then that Helen would know to light up. It was the only way to stop the jitters. She had to feed the addiction.

  The voice inside her knew where to find the fuel. The voice that was Helen’s, but it was deeper, insistent, and seductive.

  Well?

  Helen shook her head in annoyance. “Stay out of this.”

  She’s a knockout, isn’t she?

  “What of it?”

  She’s been teasing you.

  “Only once with the scarves.”

  She’s teasing you.

  Helen pursed her lips. “You sound like HAL from Kubrick’s Space Odyssey.”

  As HAL had control, I have control.

  “And I don’t?”

  Remember the bath? That wasn’t Chelsea.

  “No. It wasn’t.” The swirl of her blood intensified. She closed her eyes and listened to her breaths. Slow. Deep. She remembered.

  Lust happens.

  She snapped open her eyes. “Not to me.”

  Liar. Pick up the book.

  “No!”

  You want her.

  “I don’t know her.”

  You want her. Feel the ants?

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Helen plopped herself onto the floor in front of the small table and yanked out the book. She took a quick glance at Cory’s picture and set the photo next to her. She opened the pages directly at the C listings and scanned with her finger until she located three C. Chamberlains.

  “You didn’t make this easy, Stacey.”

  She dialed the first number.

  “No Cory here,” the first person said.

  She dialed the second.

  “You have reached the residence of Carl and Jessica Cham—”

  She hung up and her blood pulsed quick time through her veins. Helen wrote down the third number, placed it into her pocket, and closed the book. The photo remained untouched.

  “This is silly.” She shoved the book under the bench and headed toward her bedroom. “I don’t chase women.”

  She cleaned the bathroom next. What a wonderful idea. Such a great Saturday Helen had as Suzy Homemaker. There was nothing quite like cleaning the toilet with the vengeance of a jackhammer. Don’t be alive. Be a martyr. Remember the Alamo. If we don’t remember the past—

  But she did remember, and she permitted it control. Would tears for the dead be her life forever? Surely there was more, and she pushed up from her knees. In the mirror was the Helen that had known more. Touching and laughter had once existed. Hugging. Making love. She missed sharing hot cocoa on snowy walks through Washington Square Park and the feeling that living was a good thing.

  She looked to the wall on her right. If she’d had X-ray vision, she’d be staring at Cory’s photograph. That woman. The body that slammed into her more than once. How fulfilling it felt having a woman—

  “Damn it!” she shouted and slammed the can of Scrubbing Bubbles onto the back of the toilet. She thundered into her bedroom and grabbed the phone. “So I’m chasing a woman.”

  She pulled the paper from her pocket and punched in the digits. When she remembered Cory was in Boston, she relaxed. There would be no live voice contact and she could leave a message. She found control. In the middle of the second ring, their phones connected.

  “Hello.”

  Helen froze; a thud pounded in her chest. Damn it.

  “Hello?”

  Briefly, she moved the receiver to arm’s length, took a deep breath, and let it out. Slowly, she brought the phone back. “Cory Chamberlain, please,” she managed to say.

  “I’m Cory.”

  Here she is, Helen. The tease. Make it good.

  She waited an eternity of five seconds. “You set me up!”

  Okay, dummy. What the hell was that?

  “Who is this?”

  “Helen Townsend.” She thought she could hear a smile form on the other end. “I’m sorry. My social graces take a hike when they encounter you.” She heard a slight laugh.

  “I believe that was a compliment. How are you, Helen?”

  “A nervous wreck.”

  “Your honesty is intact,” Cory said with quiet composure.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. I’m thrilled that you called. I was just cleaning my aquarium.”

  Cleaning? They certainly had at least one thing in common. Helen listened so closely that she didn’t realize it was her turn to mumble a syllable or two. The air was quiet until Cory broke their silence.

  “Has grace taken a sabbatical again?”

  Helen faltered and then answered. “Yes, and I feel foolish.”

 
; “Don’t. It’s a pleasure to hear your lovely voice.”

  Although it shouldn’t have, with Cory’s not so subtle ways and words, her flirtation surprised Helen. “You’re very bold, Cory Chamberlain.” She hesitated. “Are you bold enough to see me tonight?” There. You did it.

  Cory’s response came instantly. “Yes.”

  Helen felt in control again, and all that remained was to say when and where. “How about my place at eight?” she said with all the impudence she could gather. “My address is—”

  “I know where you live,” Cory said. “I talked to Stacey an hour ago. She said you might call.”

  “Well, then—” Caught off guard, Helen fumbled for words. “Uh, yeah, bring popcorn.” She hung up the phone without saying good-bye. “Bring popcorn? Oh my God.”

  Chapter Six

  The time was five minutes to eight when Helen finished applying her mascara. With what felt like nothing but five thumbs on each hand, she smudged her way through two tissues and several profane words before she claimed victory over the brush.

  “Done.”

  She approached a floor-length mirror. To keep the evening simple, she chose tan slacks and a deep brown, oversized sweater. Comfort would help her through the evening but when she looked into the mirror, she was horrified.

  “Damn it. I look like a root beer Popsicle.” The doorbell rang and she threw her hands up in resignation. “Why would I think any of this would be simple?” She pulled on one shoe and immediately tore it off. “So I’ll be a comfortable Popsicle.”

  At the front door, Helen watched through the peephole. One by one, a slow striptease, Cory pulled at her fingertips and removed the first glove.

  “Look at you,” Helen whispered.

  Now was her deciding moment, but which decision would hold more regret? If she didn’t open the door, she could remain safe in her sparkling apartment and work-oriented life. That would serve Cory right, more than Helen, but sending her home would even the score, in Helen’s mind. Or she could open the door, which provided no more promise than a solitary bath. Promises. She wasn’t looking for them, but a growing part of her yearned to meet the future and what it could present.