The wedding venue is as unpretentious as the union it witnesses—beside the harbor, down a quiet walk, and into a gazebo. But it is cold inside, shaded from the sun, so we venture, officiate and all, to the middle of the grassy knoll overlooking the marina instead. On the other side of us is a hotel, its pool and lawn chairs in full view. We stand in a circle around the brides, and Shoshanna tries not to cry. "I am so nervous for them," she said earlier, and even now, standing silent beside me, her hands shake and fidget.
The ceremony is short and follows the same predictable pattern as the traditional man/woman spiel. Except the hims have been replaced with hers, and there are two lines of "Do you take this woman . . . ?" Both brides cry, and Shosanna cries more than the both of them together. I dos are said and the kiss exchanged. I am proud to be here to witness this, to support my new yet dear friends when their families could not be bothered to do the same.
5
(Rose) I’m doing much better, but I am not perfect. I’ll never be perfect. I’ll never be your way, the way you want me to be so that you can stand me and not have to expend too much thought on differences and tolerances and all of that liberal vernacular that will never be the same as simple acceptance. But I am better enough, so they let me go home.
Jane has no hugs or kisses for me when I get there. Not like when I picked her up from summer camp and took her out for ice cream to make her bug bites and poison ivy feel better. She only has mean words for me.
6
As soon as I bring Rose home from the hospital, I sit her down and lay down the law. "We need to have a talk," I begin. She expects me too coo and coddle her, rub her arm while she tells me all about it. But I cannot do that anymore. I explain to her that I have a job now and some friends, "And I am going to keep them both." She just stares back at me, a perpetual doe in my headlights. It is anyone’s guess whether she is even listening right now. For all I know, she could be wearing her invisible earmuffs. "I will make sure you get your meds and remind you to take a shower like I agreed in the beginning. But I am not your maid, chef, chauffer, or your personal psychiatrist. So if you want me to stick around, you better get your shit together." Her tears come quick, but I have no sympathy left. Cold? Perhaps. But empathy left with the twenty-four-seven on-call shifts. "My being at your beck and call hasn’t done you any good. All I’ve done is enable you. But it is time for that to change. You can do better than this."
7
(Rose) Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I pace the room. Fuck. Back and forth and back and forth. Faster. Faster. One end to another. Back and forth. I’m alone. It’s dark outside. Jane’s at work. Fuck. I don’t like to be alone when it’s dark outside. Well, OK, sometimes I don’t mind it; sometimes I don’t think anything of it. But right now I don’t like it. Fuck. No, no, it’s fine. It’s all good. I’ll be just fine. I’ve done it a million times. Janie’ll be home in just a few hours. Nothing bad’s gonna happen. Nothing bad’s happened all week.
FUCK!
I pace some more. Pick up the pace. Back and forth. Faster. Faster. Faster. My therapist would say that I am severely agitated, but I’m not going to call him. He’s a prick, and his hot breath always smells like pickles. He has a big belly too. I often wonder, while I sit there and tell him ridiculous stories that are only about a third real, whether it’s true what they say about men with large, rounded abdomens; does he have erectile dysfunction?
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
I plop down on the hardwood floor and land cross-legged. It’s cold and dark outside. There’s a staple on the floor.
Fuck.
I try to put the brakes on the flood of curse words in my head, but they are relentless. As bad as a word salad. They just keep coming and coming and coming. I pick up the staple. It looks new. Clean, anyways. Fuck. I twirl the staple between my thumb and pointer finger. Clockwise. Then counterclockwise. The motion’s hypnotizing.
I comb my memory for what set me off this time, but nothing comes to mind. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! It has been a week now since the hospital. A week’s a long time! A week isn't shit. It is when you’re crazy. Well that’s the point!
I rake the staple across my forearm. It barely breaks the skin, so I push down harder. Finally, it stings a little. A red streak seeps out. I do it again, harder, until there’s a cluster of deep scratches. Then I jab the staple into the fleshy side of my wrist between the veins. It bleeds a lot, and I have to wrap it in a towel. But it hurts in a good way, so I roll my pant leg up and etch more lines there. Horizontal then vertical ones, like a plaid bloodline tattoo. It stings and burns, and I am alive. Next, I roll up my other pant leg and carve a field with flowers, a horse, a barn, the sun, and clouds.
It’s better than pacing to and fro muttering filth, right? I become easily engrossed in my work. The night’s gone. So’s my loneliness. I can’t be lonely now. I am all there is: me, my staple, and my ivory canvas.
I don’t hear the key in the door. Or the door open. Or Jane step inside. I only hear her when she asks me what the fuck I am doing, however long it takes her to do that. Well, maybe she says fuck and maybe she doesn't, but that’s what I hear.
"Huh?" I ask, my face an ignorant blank slate.
She asks again. She doesn't really say fuck.
"I . . . I . . ." I stammer. This all makes sense in my head, but how do I explain it? She just stares at me, waiting for an answer. "I . . . I was just drawing a picture."
"Do you need some paper?" she asks, and I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm in her voice. She squats down, looks at my calf. "Interesting." She stands back up and walks into the kitchen. Over her shoulder she says, "You might want to wash that out so it doesn’t get infected. There’s some hydrogen peroxide in the bathroom."
This is weird. No judging. No yelling. No threatening to call my therapist. I’ve just been found out, caught doing something most people would consider totally insane. Instead of a trip to the hospital, she gets busy making dinner? Where are the reproaches? The demands that I act normal? Maybe I’ve pushed her too far, so far that she doesn't even care about me anymore. Instead of agitation in her voice, annoyance in her suggestion, all I hear is callous detachment.
And yet I feel . . . calm? More than anything, I hate it when people tell me what to do, like I’m a child or something. But she didn’t tell me what to do. True, she suggested something. But a suggestion’s something different from a demand. A suggestion’s a possibility. And it recognizes that I actually have the faculties to make this decision. I choose to follow Janie’s suggestion.
I tiptoe off to the bathroom and start the hot water. The soap stings a little where the staple broke the skin. I inspect the welts, the artistry, and consider paper. I just can’t wrap my mind around the idea that pen on paper could soothe the way that a sharp object does on skin. Paper’s so far removed. How can it have any effect on ME?
The hydrogen peroxide bubbles everywhere my skin was pierced. It seeks out and destroys each speck of blood, promptly gobbling it up. "Fizz," it says. "Fizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . ." It’s hungry and my anxiety’s its meal.
Janie has supper laid out on our makeshift kitchen table when I’m done. The vegetable soup’s homemade, but the French bread came from the store. We eat together just like we did when she was little and Darla was at work or off on holiday with her latest lover. Well, sort of. There were others who used to join us, but I haven’t seen them in a while now.
Our dinner table’s actually a big cardboard box that I found behind a dumpster. We covered it with a plain white sheet, so you can’t tell what it really is. And we don’t eat any heavy foods on top of it or use real plates. We do have real chairs, though. OK, they are folding chairs that I found behind another dumpster. One was missing a leg and the other the actual seat. Janie made a new leg with a lead pipe and fixed the seat with a piece of plywood. She’s kind of like MacGyver and shit.
Janie doesn't ask about my skin art directly, and her reaction so far’s pretty much dumbfounding. She does ask,
"So what have you been up to all day?"
"Oh, nothing much." The panic, the anxiety, these are not what she wants to hear about anymore. If she knew, she would probably leave. Forever. Who wants to be glued to a schizo twenty-four seven? I wouldn’t, but I don’t have any choice in the matter.
Then she tells me she’s going out in a bit. I choke on my soup just a little, not enough to draw attention, and try to smile, nod, and ask about her plans, but all that comes out’s a trail of, "Oh . . ."
"I’ll leave you some paper."
8
After their picture-perfect Victorian ceremony, Sami and Beth ran up the steps of parliament to declare their love to the rest of BC. There was something iconic about those two dresses, holding hands as they climbed the steep cement steps to the seat of government. I was promised a black-and-white print of the moment, but it never happened.
In less than a month, their union is destroyed by temptation in the form of a petite Chicana with long black hair and the stereotypical booty. Straight, Catholic, and a virgin, Veronica sets her sights on Sami with deliberate intention. Funny how some people can rationalize breaking up a partnership just to satisfy their own personal curiosity. Funny how some people are so easy to take.
We are sitting on the bed she shares with her wife when Sami admits it all. The picture that she paints is one of worship, of awe, of lust. "You know," she says, throwing herself back on her bed to stare at the ceiling. "If I’d never met Veronica, I think I could’ve spent the rest of my life with Beth and been perfectly happy. I didn’t even realize what was missing until I felt that chemistry with Veronica. She just has to look at me, and I get wet." Her smile is wistful and reminiscent of puppy love, not dirty like her words.
I ask her if she has done anything with this Veronica chick aside from the pupil sex. She looks away and down at the duvet. She scratches at a stain and does not say anything. "Sami?" She looks up, sheepish, guilty. "What did you do?" Judgment creeps into my voice. I am almost as attached to Sami’s wife as to her. With all that has gone wrong in my so-called love life, I am a little protective of their young marriage, as if they are the last beacon of hope in a sea of shitty relationships.
She giggles and stalls a moment before she admits, "I went down her pants."
My jaw drops.
"She was so soft and moist and soooo receptive. It was amazing, Jane," she gushes. "We had just closed, and we were cleaning up the wait station."
"Wait," I stop her, confused. "She works at Heaven & Hell?"
"My other job," she answers, as if I should have known. Andrew’s, a breakfast spot on the east side of town, which means it was broad daylight when this happened. Somehow that makes it worse. "Anyways," she continues, "we were cleaning up the wait station, and she just looked at me with those big brown eyes, and she put her hands behind her on the counter so that her boobs were sticking out, and she licked her lips, and I fucking lost it. I couldn’t not touch her! I had to! She was practically begging!" She pauses, leaves room for questions, but I just stare at her until she goes on with her story. "My god, she was so perfect! I can’t wait to get my tongue inside of her!"
"So that’s it?" I ask. "You just got married, and now you’re just throwing it all away, just like that?"
And that is exactly what she does. She sneaks around and invites Veronica into their bed for about a week. Then she packs a few bags, confesses, and walks the fuck out of the house she and Beth just bought together.
Between the betrayal and Sami’s preoccupation with her shiny new toy, the dynamics of my friendship with Beth quickly change. I forgive her for assuming it was me her wife was sleeping with and introduce her to Julia, Angela, and Cherry. It is not about picking sides necessarily, but I see less and less of Sami as she devotes all of her free time to Veronica, and Beth takes her place as the latest member in our little circle of misfits.
9
(The Circle) The phenomenon of the circle is common among women. Like any good pack animal, they stick together, right? Well, sort of . . . or at least to the same degree that division enlivens their cohesion. To be a circle is to be inclusive at the moment of exclusivity, to shelter those within as walls close down on those without, to uplift and support even in the rally to tear down. Circles can offer camaraderie and friendship or a cold shoulder to those who have wronged our members. We warm with fire and cool with shade. Round in form but not always in practice, expectations differ from one to the next. Standards vary. Characteristics can come in any number of combinations, some so strange it is a wonder they did not implode upon their original fusion. Jealousy, love, backstabbing, codependence, and (im)moral support—these are all present within me, to one degree or another.
Julia, Angela, Jane, Cherry—she is the young one, only seventeen and in over her head with this group of rough-and-tumble twentysomethings. Her infatuation with Julia has led her here: party after party, hit after hit, shot after shot, forty after forty. Foolishly, albeit with a sense of investment, Cherry spends hand over fist in vain attempts to buy her Freudian mother figure. One pay day, it is a car stereo system, the next a pair of Christian Louboutin knockoffs. Julia recognizes her desperation, and the good and evil in her both react, exploiting even as she tries to mend Cherry’s young heart. The result is obvious: conflict, chaos, passion, and more desperation. Ultimately, Cherry will be a willing participant in this situation where she is taken advantage of and subsequently disappointed by the rewards of a lopsided friendship and a tentative membership in a circle older, wiser, and more qualified in mutual cruelty than herself. Then there is Angela’s older sister, Katrina. It can be hard to believe they are related. Katrina is the femme to Angela’s boyish charm. Long blonde hair, light caramel skin, a playful pair of lime-green eyes, and a figure that hasn’t suffered any for birthing four boys. Elisabeth is the last and most recent addition. And except for her eye color (with dark brown eyes, Cherry is the only non-green eye in the bunch) she is very, very different from the rest. Raised on gymnastics and private school, she never experienced any of the hardships that the rest of them have known since birth. That is, until the day she met her future ex-wife and realized that she would never be able to fulfill her parents’ traditional expectations of a husband and biological children at home. She gave up their acceptance, and a sizeable inheritance, to marry the woman who betrayed her just as my circle began to form. Her heartbreak serves as a bridge into their world, a pain they can all understand and relate to; she is welcomed with open arms.
Each of my progeny has yet to find her place in the world. They are young and stuck in dead-end jobs. They are flawed and conniving, but they have each other’s backs when push comes to shove. There is infighting and drama for the sake of drama while each and every one of them decries how much she absolutely HATES drama. There is shameless gratification and sexual exploration that borders on orgy. The pieces fall together like destiny, and there is more than one dirty little secret to share. Each member finds her place amongst the others, and interconnections are made to the nth degree. But the epicenter, the one on whom a final tally of connections will crown number one, is Julia. A fan of all things gangster, she brings a certain ethos to the group, certain behaviors and manners, of which ignorance is no excuse. For example, respect your elders—even if this seniority is determined by just a few months’ time—loyalty, family. Etcetera. Etcetera. Her position is a niche of passive aggression, epitomized not by her own declaration of leadership, but by her sidekick’s incessant claim to number two.
Angela has a big personality and an even bigger smile—a smile so big it takes over her face. Sometimes she smiles so big, her gums dry in the wind. She smiles like this when she offers Jane the number-three spot. Again.
Sarcasm is an art with this other one. Her narcissistic manner prattles, no holds barred, a maelstrom of convoluted insults at both the idea of hierarchy and the more personal insinuation of herself as second—let alone third—to anyone. In the balance of power, Jane walks a tenuous
line. Her refusal to recognize any type of authority will be tolerated only so long as it does not spread to the rest of the circle. "There is no fucking number three, Angela. Just like there is no fucking number two or number one either."
Angela seethes at the challenge. "Yes there is," she insists. "And Julia and I came first." Strange, this number-two girl defining the pecking order. As if it is her identity that most depends on it. Julia does not overtly confirm or deny her sidekick’s claims. But covertly? Covertly, she not only allows for but altogether encourages Angela’s declarations by way of her silence. Years later, she will admit that it was all part of her master plan.
"That is the fucking stupidest thing I have ever fucking heard." Jane laughs and then questions, "So why aren’t you number one?"
Angela wants to be number one; it shows in her eyes, but she will never admit it in front of Julia. She will never admit that feelings of inadequacy are what she masks with bravado. Instead, she answers too quickly, "Because she is older than me."
Jane laughs and rolls her eyes. "Like I said, that is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard. And you and Julia were friends for a long fucking time, and there was no Circle," she points out. "Actually, if you really think about it, there was no Circle until I came along! Funny," she says with manic sarcasm, tilting her head as she looks up at the ceiling in mock epiphany. "Hmmmm, technically that means I should be number one."
With that, the conversation quickly disintegrates into childish arguments: "You’re stupid!" and "I know you are but what am I!" It is not the end of the discussion, of course. Angela will continue to bring it up, Julia will continue to act as though she does not hear her gospel and cannot comment on its truth or fallacy, and Jane will continue to argue that there is no leader because "A goddamned, motherfucking circle is round, goddamn it; did you seriously flunk geometry that fucking bad?"
Jane. Page 11
