Camptown Ladies

by Mari SanGiovanni

  We both relaxed and ordered our drinks and dinner and our conversation turned to family, as it usually did, though she carefully avoided talking about Vince. “Has Lisa ever been in a long relationship?” she asked.

  “Lisa acts like a womanizer, but don’t let her kid you. She is the fussiest person I know when it comes to women.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Once she broke up with a woman because of a bad cold,” I said.

  “Do tell,” Erica said, sipping on her red wine, holding the glass up. “This is amazing.”

  “Glad you like it. Blackstone merlot. Anyway, Lisa went to bed that night, and when the poor woman woke up, she had a snot rag stuck to her left tit.”

  Erica started laughing, and I felt like I always did when this happened, lucky.

  “So there she was, in the bed, naked, except for this snotty Kleenex, which had cemented itself to her boob, poor thing. She carried on a whole conversation with Lisa about how she was feeling much better, and the whole time, the Kleenex chunk was stuck to her. The worst part is, when Lisa tells the story, she says, if it had just stuck to the smaller tit, she might have stayed with her.”

  Erica had to spit her sip of wine back into her glass to laugh without choking.

  I laughed at her. “Nice . . . very pretty,” I said, but I wanted to see her laugh like that again, so I kept going. I had a million Lisa stories, I could go all night.

  “Another time, Lisa broke up with a girl on a first date, while they were sharing their first drink. It was at a Chinese restaurant, the drink was a scorpion bowl.”

  “Why?” Erica said, still chuckling from the last story.

  “In her defense, Lisa discovered the girl was dumb as a rock.”

  Erica said, “During the first drink?”

  I told Erica how Lisa described the girl stabbing herself in the eye three times on the extra-long straw. “Lisa said it was just one too many times, but what had really sealed the deal was when the girl whipped out a nail clipper at the table and clipped her straw to a normal size to stop stabbing herself and Lisa dumped her on the spot. She said she couldn’t stop staring at the end of the straw, cut curved like a tiny toenail, and the way the girl had to lean way over it now since it was so short. Dumped her before the dumplings.”

  Erica was laughing again, and the sound of it, along with the wine, was making me feel content for the first time in months. There was no place I longed to be, and no breakup conversation with Lorn replaying in my head.

  Erica said, “So, the final straw, so to speak, was that she used a nail clipper at the table? That is amazing.”

  “Well, she had a point, if the girl knew she had to clip the straw or she would keep stabbing herself in the eye. I mean, that is a level of dumb that is pretty frightening. Who the hell knows, maybe Lisa really liked the dumplings.”

  We both laughed and then talked about Dad and Mom. Later in the meal, Erica said, “So, you plan on living with Vince and Lisa forever?”

  I said no. Then I confessed to her a fantasy that I had not even told my brother and sister. When Lisa bought Camptown Ladies, she had deeded Vince and I each a large plot of land on the outskirts of the campground, mainly to stop anyone else from building near the camp, and I’d been thinking about building an authentic log cabin in the woods. After my confession, Erica studied me seriously, feigning interest, before she said, totally deadpan: “Dyke.”

  Then we broke into more laughter, which ended when she stole something from my plate I had been looking forward to eating. I knocked it out of her chopsticks and popped it into my mouth in an impressive defensive counter move—rookie mistake on her part: gloat after you eat the stolen food, not before.

  I learned a lot of trivial stuff about Erica that night, but she wouldn’t talk about Vince. No matter how many times I tried to steer her that way, she would veer off to avoid talking about him and ask me a random question about Lisa, Mom, Dad, or books or movies.

  She asked, “Favorite movie?”

  I answered, “Meryl Streep.”

  “That’s not a movie,” she said.

  “It should be,” I said. “Now, you are gonna really laugh at me, but one of my favorite movies is The Bridges of Madison County.”

  Erica put down her glass, outraged. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. Straight girls see it as a sappy romance, but lesbians love it because they know the entire first hour is entirely about Meryl getting wet.” Erica nearly spewed her wine again. I continued, “Sure, they don’t actually show this, and Clint Eastwood looks old enough to be her father, or at least a scary uncle, but still, Meryl is playing the part of a woman squirming to get boned the entire first hour of the movie. Good fucking times for us lesbos.” I sighed.

  Erica laughed and shook her head at me, “Sometimes I do see a bit of Lisa in you.”

  “Watch out! Lisa would like to see a bit of her in you.”

  Erica just shook her head at me. “You Santoras are crazy.”

  “Lisa and I are so different. She was born a parade-marcher; I’m more a parade-watcher. You wouldn’t think this was possible, but one time, Lisa went off on a political tirade while watching a dog show.”

  Erica didn’t believe me, so I explained.

  “We were watching the Westminster dog show on TV with a couple of friends and Lisa went to the kitchen to grab a beer. While she was in there, she heard the announcer say: ‘The thirteen-inch Beagle is no fan of gay men.’ She came tearing out of the kitchen swearing up a blue streak, screaming, ‘How could they say that, someone better get fired for this!’ and on and on about how she was going to write friggin’ letters to the network, and on and on—”

  Erica interrupted, “Well that is an odd thing to say, I mean, how could they say that a certain dog breed—”

  “Oh, I let her go on and on in front of our friends. Lisa loves a good fight, and wants the world to say Fuck you to her so she can fuck them back ten-fold. Just for fun, I even let her call the network before I told her that the announcer actually said: “The thirteen inch Beagle is no fan of game hen.’”

  This time, Erica doubled over as she laughed. I could have been so caught up in the joy of making fun of my sister without the fear of getting pummeled, or maybe it was the bottle of wine that caused my guard to be completely down, but that was the moment I looked at her and thought: I’ve never been attracted to someone who wasn’t older than me. Lorn’s power over me was so controlling, while Erica’s power is so much—

  Whoa.

  It had been the tiniest voice, like a distant trumpet on the farthest, tallest mountain in Whoville, yet I somehow heard it loud and clear. I gulped the last of my wine and stared at her. Of course I was attracted to her, the entire world was attracted to her, who could blame me for that? There. Now that I’d acknowledged it, I could throw it back over the fence. Like scooping your dog’s poop and throwing it into a nasty neighbor’s yard: I had put that shit back where it belonged, and I needed to forget I ever thought it.

  I was staring at Erica, no doubt with a freaked-out look, and she was staring back, completely baffled by my expression. The silence grew between us, and I was thrown into a word association panic and started blithering.

  “I had a dog growing up,” I said.

  “OK.”

  I said, “He was a Rottweiler named Bear. I got in big trouble when my neighbor told my parents I had been throwing his poop over the fence into her yard.”

  There was a long pause while Erica considered if she had missed something in the conversation.

  “And, you had been doing that?” she finally said.

  “Yes.”

  “Feel better?” she asked, looking at me for quite some time, unblinking. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Good story.”

  We both laughed our asses off again, even with me knowing the secret about my attachment to her laughter, and her rare and dazzling smile. I realized all my attachment had not all been i
n the hope my brother would win her back. For the rest of the night, everything was suspect: the thudding in my chest, the heat in my face, the stalling for more time together, the pleasure of seeing her again, of spending time alone with her, all of which had happened before, all of which I had never questioned until now.

  But the damned distant voice had now named it, and I had heard it, so I spent the rest of the evening wondering how long I could ignore it, before everything would be ruined from what I should have known so long ago. How long would it be before she would know it? Or worse, how long would it be before my brother did?

  Sixteen

  Going Out With The Parents Is Such A Drag

  I walked into the breakfast room at Gabriel’s Inn and Lisa said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, and stupidly asked, “Why?”

  Lisa answered, “How was your date last night? You look as white as a ghost. Holy crap, did somebody bleed you dry last night?”

  Mom scolded her while I glanced over at Erica, who had a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as Lisa grilled me for details. I glanced over at Erica, and damned if she wasn’t enjoying watching me squirm. Last night, we had agreed to not tell them she had bid on me because it would be more “fun” to taunt them. This seemed a great plan to Erica, who didn’t have anything to hide.

  In desperation, I took a different tack and covered a quick smirk at my sister as if I did have something to hide, and that maybe last night I had gotten the complete opposite of unlucky. This worked.

  Lisa yelled, “Details!”

  Happy to have dodged a bullet, I playfully ignored her and sat down at the table. Slowly, elegantly, I unfolded my napkin and placed it on my lap as if the world were watching me, which didn’t feel far from the truth.

  “Come on,” Lisa pleaded, before she turned on Vince. “Do you know anything about this date?”

  He put his hands up in surrender, looking like Uncle Freddie. “I’ve got nothing,” he said.

  Lisa said, “I don’t think for a second that you got laid—”

  “Girls!” Mom said, “This isn’t proper breakfast conversation.”

  “You’re right Mom,” Lisa said. “Can someone pass Marie the hot, creamy butter.”

  “Lisa!” Mom said, as we all laughed at her, especially Dad. Dad loved nothing better than inappropriate talk at the table. When Aunt Aggie finished devouring the last bite of her pancake tower breakfast, she cracked with her mouthful, “These children have terrible table manners.”

  This was pretty much true, but when she said “terrible table” pieces of pancake flew out of her mouth and landed on the white tablecloth. Being part of a generation that never wasted food, she scooped them up with a two-finger dip and licked them back into her mouth. Uncle Freddie caught my eye and covered his peaceful smile by sipping on his coffee. Only one gentle “hee-hee” escaped and Aunt Aggie thudded him in the side, making him laugh harder.

  Lisa was still studying me, so I risked a glance at Erica but regretted it when our eyes met and my stomach took a diving leap under the breakfast table. I could almost hear it land with a loud splat on the floor. When Erica winked at me playfully, it made me feel worse, yet I couldn’t help smirking. While I smeared butter on my pancake, my sister continued to taunt me for details, and when I chose to say nothing, I realized that might have been a mistake.

  Lisa let her fork drop loudly to the center of her empty plate. Everyone looked at her and the feeling in the pit of my stomach was replaced with fear. I knew that look. And, apparently, she knew the look on my face as well.

  “Shit!” Lisa said, “You liked her! Whoever it was, you liked her!”

  I felt my eyes widen and this time I forced myself not to look at Erica. Then a perfect way to deflect Lisa occurred to me, and I gave her the “hubba-hubba” eyebrow action followed by a not-so-subtle wipe of the corners of my mouth, as a queen might do—if the queen had just chowed on a beautiful woman. Vince, gullible as always, gave a congratulatory slap on my back, and my reaction had the desired effect on Lisa.

  “I call bullshit!” Lisa said, and Mom yelled at us again as I kicked the gloating up a notch with an over-the-top cocky look, even blowing a puff of air on my fingernails. I looked around and I noticed our family had yet again taken over the Great Room and not another guest had dared to venture near the breakfast table with all the noise we were making. I saw Sweet Elizabeth poke her head in from the front desk room as if to remind herself that we were still just a bunch of rowdy Italians and there was nothing to be alarmed about, that yelling and profanity was happening in her usually peaceful breakfast room. I apologized a smile to her as she went back to her desk with a cheerful wave.

  Finally, I felt confident enough to chance a sneak look at Erica, who was smiling that dazzling smile, and even though the smile was directed at her plate of pancakes, there was yet another leaping fall in the pit of my stomach. When I looked back across the table to my sister, I feared Lisa might not believe my story was bullshit after all. She was watching me, with that powerful older sister look that could make you confess things you didn’t even dream of doing—but what scared me most was that she didn’t call me on any of it.

  On our last evening in P-town, I made the mistake of telling Lisa that since I had negotiated dinner plans with Aunt Aggie and Mom for nearly an hour, she would be in charge of finding something fun for us all to do after we had dinner. Of course, Lisa decided nothing would be more fun than to take everyone to a drag show at The Crown & Anchor. Thankfully, Aunt Aggie and Uncle Freddie had pooped out shortly after supper, since I suspected Aunt Aggie would have rallied for this one, had she known. (My second mistake? That would be not poking my eyes out so I wouldn’t have to see Erica in her outfit, another drop dead number, too dressy for a seaside town. I braced myself for a long night.)

  When we got to the theater, I was suspicious when all the front seats were still available, but Dad was so excited that he nearly knocked over a couple of girlish men to claim the seats, and one guy let out a high-pitched shriek that rivaled Vince’s when he lost his battle with Wonder Woman. As Dad commandeered the entire front row for us (including a seat for Eddie, who had been MIA for the last two days), Lisa wouldn’t let me tell Dad why the regular visitors to P-town knew those seats were dreadfully undesirable.

  Mom and Dad wanted the seats on the end so Mom had an easy to exit to the bathroom, and Dad could “sneak out for a smoke if some fanuk started to sing one too many Liza songs.” Lisa and Vince took the next two seats, which left the only open seat for me, right next to Erica. When I took the seat beside her, I was alarmed when she leaned in closer to me to whisper, “Something tells me we’re taking a big risk.”

  “Why would you say that?” I said, my voice an horrific impersonation of my mother.

  “The front row of a drag comedy show,” she answered, looking at me like I the idiot I was.

  I had spent the better part of the day going over our blind date, finding her only suspicious move had been buying the date in the first place. We’d both fallen uncharacteristically quiet as we rode the taxi back to the hotel. It was strange since we’d left the restaurant laughing about how withholding any information about the date would make Lisa’s imagination run hog wild, and yet, when the taxi door closed, I could smell her perfume and we both got strangely quiet.

  My biggest fear last night was enjoying every second with her. My biggest fear tonight was that I might look like a bit like my brother, who was uncomfortably sitting next to the woman he thought was the most gorgeous woman on the face of the earth. Poor guy, I thought, as I sat drowning in the nearness of her; by the look of Erica this evening, Vince had to be suffering terribly at the sight of her.

  The show started and the first act wasted no time exploiting the front row. It was hysterical, but Lisa and I had been to enough of these to know that we were screwed. The first performer wore a dress that appeared to be fabric made of purple and pink glitter on a milky
glue backdrop. She strutted back and forth on the stage and within the first thirty seconds she had targeted Mom and Dad.

  “Hey there, Pops,” she boomed down from the stage in answer to my father’s ridiculously wide smile. The crowd laughed and Dad looked like a guy about to be hit with a cartoon rake—if a cartoon rake would ever consider wearing a purple and pink feather boa.

  The performer, billed on the poster outside as Glady Ateher (pronounced Glad-He-Ate-Her), turned to the crowd and said, “Who’s gonna tell the old people there isn’t a dinner special?” The crowd laughed and the performer and audience was hooked on a steady diet of Santora family ball-busting. My father was in heaven, and Mom had a look we had seen many times: equal parts forced good humor and constrained horror.

  Glady Ateher asked, “So Pops, who’s the lesbian to your right?”

  When Dad finished splitting a gut laughing, he answered into Glady Ateher’s mic, “That’s my wife.”

  Glady Ateher put her hand on her hip as she looked Mom up and down while the crowd laughed. “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, folks.” Somewhere off in the distance, I heard Mom’s tires squealing as she departed Good Humor Town. Glady Ateher inched closer and said, “I ain’t buying it. How long you been married?”

  Dad said, “Over 30 years. If I had killed her when I first married her, I would’ve been out of jail by now!” The crowd laughed in encouragement and Dad beamed at them.

  Glady Ateher’s eyes gleamed, “Oooo, a comedian! Don’t ya think it’s kinda late to start a new career there, Pops!”

  Under the hot lights, I could see Glady Ateher’s makeup crack and melt, which, up close, gave her the appearance of a murderous clown. It added to the humor of her giant body looking like it was crammed into a glitter pen. Glady Ateher turned and said to Mom, “He thinks you’re not a lesbian,” and put the microphone in her face.

  Mom answered, deadpan, “I’m aware of that.”