Camptown Ladies

by Mari SanGiovanni

  My head spun a little, then I shook it emphatically, No. “Of course there’s nobody else,” I said, and I held her gaze just to prove it. She was beautiful. But she wasn’t Erica.

  Lorn took this as a sign she should move closer, “You don’t know how sorry I am. Please tell me it’s not too late.”

  It was way, way, too late. Not only had that ship sailed, it had wrecked into a dock and taken out a deck hand—namely, me. And that was why grabbed I both sides of her face and kissed her. Hard. She was surprised at first, but recovered, returning a passionate kiss, which felt familiar and good. My head spun again, maybe with the memory of loving her, or maybe it was my desperate wish that I still could. Lorn was beautiful, that had not changed, so why was it I held my eyes so tightly closed?

  Maybe this was exactly what I needed now.

  When our kiss ended, we were left staring at each other. Lorn had the same look on her face I must have had the whole time we were together. It said: Is this for real? I was grateful she didn’t ask. “I should go back inside,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. She reached into her purse and handed me a plastic card. “I’m in room two sixty-seven. Right up the street at the Radisson. Will you please come when you’re done here?”

  Would I ever be done here?

  She left then, and I watched her go, her beautiful auburn hair shifting in the moonlight, wishing it still affected me as it once did. I attempted to regroup by taking deep breaths going back into the hall, but all was lost when I walked through the doorway to find Erica waiting for me, her hurt expression hardening. I didn’t know what to say, but she did.

  “She’ll leave you again.”

  “I know,” I said stupidly, our eyes locked like angry neighbors over a much-needed fence.

  Erica walked away, and I fought the powerful urge to follow her as I thought of my sister throwing Little Women into her trashcan. This evening may not have been the tale of awakening lesbianism for which Erica may have hoped. I imagined myself running after her, and spinning her around to kiss her, my body weakening at the thought. How could the mere thought of kissing her eclipse a real-life kiss with Lorn, the person I once thought was the love of my life? The bigger question was how could I even imagine ever hurting my brother?

  I reassessed the dining hall and saw that Uncle Freddie had appointed himself doorman to keep the crowd from re-entering until Lisa got the dining hall converted to a dance hall. Soon the music was underway and the gay boys took turns singing respectful renditions of “Dancing Queen” and other Abba delights, as children slid on the new weatherproof floor, comparing their dance moves. Adults gathered around the edges of the room, well armed with coolers of beer substituting as barstools.

  As low-brow as this scene may have been, I found myself marveling at the mix of people gathered happily under the wounded roof, lulled into cheerful camaraderie by the best food they may have ever tasted. The twinkle lights in the rafters became a star-filled sky, and with Lisa’s dry ice machine cranking, the floor filled with a low-hanging cloud of thick white mist, moving in magical swirls the entire rest of the evening, every time Erica walked through it.

  Twenty-Four

  Greg Brady Learns His Limits

  It was late and I was driving away from the camp like a fugitive. I saw Erica leave without saying goodbye to anyone except Lisa, and I had done the same. The Dove was still in high swing when I made my escape, telling Lisa I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to go to bed. I had not lied. Minutes before, I had allowed myself a long glance at Erica, and was scared to death that Vince saw me do it, though he didn’t act differently toward me when I said goodnight. Soon after, I approached Lisa to let her know I was leaving.

  She was surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of campers, mostly straight, mostly drunk, and all die-hard fans of her cooking. I waited patiently to talk with her, forgetting my troubles for a few minutes as I took pleasure in my sister’s success. One by one they took turns telling her that she could be the chef of a five-star restaurant (to this, Lisa answered that Camptown Ladies was a five-star restaurant) and they tried not to insult her while finding out why she was “wasting her talents cooking at a campground.”

  An elderly lady—who liked to be called Grandma Mitzy by everyone except her grandchildren (they were only allowed to call her Grandma)—grabbed Lisa by the arm as only an old person is allowed to do. “This was the best meal I have ever had in my all my seventy-eight years,” she said, in a frail but cheerful voice. The crowd nodded their heads and several lifted their cans of beer in agreement.

  Lisa beamed and said, “Why thank you,” and she gave a gentlemanly bow.

  Grandma Mitzy said, “If you could do anything, what would your next goal be? Do you want to find a nice fellow and get married? You gotta have goals in life,” the old lady schooled. “Otherwise, life just happens to you.”

  Eddie was always one to join a drinking crowd and he called out from the back of the group, “Yeah, Lisa, do tell us your goals,” he said, smirking at her.

  Lisa said, “Well, I have this one fantasy . . .”

  I braced myself as Grandma Mitzy said, “Oh please tell us, dear.”

  Lisa said, “I want to cook dinner for Meryl Streep and Dana Delany. But that’s not all, I want to eat with them too.” Eddie chuckled, but Mitzy listened with rapt interest, as I tried to catch her eye to warn her to be polite.

  Lisa created an invisible diagram before them. “Meryl will be right sitting here,” she indicated close to her right, “and Dana will be sitting right here,” close to her left side, “and we’ll be sitting at this tiny, tiny table. Almost not a table at all, it’s so small. Actually, it might just be the pole that the tabletop is supposed to sit on . . .”

  Grandma Mitzy was perplexed, “But how would the food fit on a table that small?” she asked.

  “Not sure, I just know the table would be so very tiny that our elbows and knees would have to rub against each other . . . and maybe even our vulvas.”

  Eddie slapped his hand over his mouth, but not before a tiny shriek slipped out. He turned away and doubled over to finish his girlie chortling into the privacy of his own crotch. A few people chuckled with him, and one bearded guy shouted “Yeah!” Only one woman walked her child away in disgust, so, all in all, it could have been worse. Grandma Mitzy glanced down at Lisa’s T-shirt, then patted Lisa on the arm and said, “That’s nice, dear. If those two girls have any friggin’ taste at all, it’ll happen for you.”

  Lisa started toward the kitchen, but Mom walked over in a little panic just before I could catch her alone. Mom said in a hushed voice, “There are two cars out there with Massachusetts license plates.”

  Lisa said, “Mom, a Massachusetts plate doesn’t necessarily mean we have drug runners. Rhode Island is the size of a postage stamp, we’re bound to have some out-of-towners.” Mom let out a clucking sound with her tongue to indicate Lisa still had so much to learn; she really had no idea how her children had survived this long.

  When Lisa broke free into the kitchen, I followed her.

  “Listen, I’m not feeling well. I need to go to bed,” I said.

  Lisa glanced at me sideways. “Bed, huh?”

  She had me. I pig-scrambled to be more convincing.

  “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  Lisa said, “I think you’re going down on something. Lorn’s pussy.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief that I turned into a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Have fun,” she said sarcastically as I left the kitchen. “But remember, Einstein’s definition of insanity is fucking the same woman again and again, and expecting a different result.”

  I don’t remember the drive there, but it wasn’t because I was drunk. I actually drank safely in my car just before I knocked on her door. When she opened the door, I thought it best to launch at her like a misfired rocket and kiss her, before I thought about what I should or shouldn’t do, o
r before I thought about my brother. Erica responded, and her kiss was warm and wild, as we both clutched at each other, tearing off each other’s clothes before I could get fully through her door.

  “Are you sure? You’ve been drinking.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ve been drinking.”

  I wanted to look at her, but kept my eyes tightly closed, so I could pretend it was all happening to me, and not because of me. This just happened, it’s not that I ran to her. I didn’t drive over here, I didn’t have the criminal intent to pack some liquid courage to swill in the car before attacking her in her doorway. I wouldn’t think of Vince. I would think only of her.

  As I unbuttoned her pants, she whispered within our kiss, “Yes, please.” So, I shoved my hand down and she moved her hips up toward me so I could get inside. Perfect. Women are so perfect, I thought, as she moved against my hand, moaning my name in my ear, and I felt myself responding as she was. “I love you, Marie,” she said.

  I rammed into her harder, not my usual style (unless specifically requested, of course), which made her words melt into senseless sounds, which was exactly what I was going for. I didn’t want to hear that she loved me. I didn’t want her to make any sense at all. It was all so very wrong, and I fought to keep thoughts of my brother’s love for Erica out of my head as I moved her away from the door. Since she was impaled on me, she had no choice but to comply, and I may have even lifted her a little.

  “I want you,” I said, a bit of a redundant declaration when you have a woman attached to your hand, walking her backward down a hallway like a bowling ball.

  She said, “I need you,” and I shut her up by angrily kissing her again.

  We reached the bed. I need you too, I thought. More than anything, more than everything . . . obviously. Why else would I do such a thing as this?

  Vince would move on eventually, I thought. He would find someone else and be happy again. This happens all the time, right? Erica had fallen for me and there was nothing he could do to change that. I had realized there was nothing I could do either. When Erica left the campground tonight, she had ripped my heart out of my chest, flinging it across Lisa’s restaurant, possibly landing undetected into one of Lisa’s vat of meatballs, and now that my heart had been broken free, it was likely devoured by some Budweiser-drinking camper in a dirty John Deer baseball hat.

  Erica was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and it crossed my mind as I desperately was having my way with her, that I had once thought that of Lorn. What the hell made me think Erica could love me forever? I fucked her harder and forgot the question for a moment.

  But it came roaring back.

  Erica had lived a straight life, much like Lorn had. Would she run from me as Lorn had done so many times? Maybe after the excitement wore off she’d go back to the much more sensible choice—the male version of me, my brother Vince. Not a bad choice, really. No other guy I would more highly recommend, if you didn’t want me.

  I pulled her bra up over her breasts, and did a face plant on her as she writhed beneath me, my sucking pushing her into a corkscrew motion to get away at the same time that her hands were grabbing my head to pull me harder against her, as if she couldn’t make up her mind—was she having trouble deciding what she wanted? I knew this: she would not get away while my mouth was attached to her nipple like an oxygen leash.

  Maybe I could keep her attached to me like this forever. It’s not like she could get away and lead a normal life with me dangling from her left tit, right? How would you show up for work with another woman attached to your nipple like a large mouth bass latched to the head of a succulent worm? Not likely you’ll get far, my dear, and people will stop inviting you places, lessening the chance at a party for someone to say, “You know, Erica, you were way more normal when you were straight, before you had that Italian woman constantly hanging from your left nipple. Could you pass me the olives, and perhaps a cracker?”

  I fucked her harder, curling my fingers deep inside her with each thrust and she screamed out as the combination of this and my best bass moves made her come. I couldn’t see her since my face was completely buried in her chest, but I could easily imagine her, so beautiful: Erica’s mouth slightly open with intense pleasure, now going into a silent scream as she writhed beneath me, her breath catching in surprise as a second wave of orgasm hit her when I refused to stop, even when she clutched my wrist, even when she tried to stop me with words, I simply covered her mouth with my other hand. Nope. There would be no discussion, because there would be no stopping. No stopping.

  Hearing her, feeling her body responding from inside, a wave came over me. Sadly this was not an orgasm-type wave but one of those giant Hawaiian waves, the kind that curl up twenty feet or more, exciting, beautiful—but as the wave crested, there came a dark shadow inside and Greg was now trapped inside the wave. Greg Brady, gangly teen, inexperienced surfer, illusions of grandeur shattering under the fierce power of the giant wave. We all saw that Brady Bunch episode, we all know what happens.

  Greg was completely out of his league and the massive wave overtook him, and now he was somersaulting as the wave crashed over him again and again. It might have felt good to be out of control, if it weren’t for the unlucky tiki necklace that pelted him repeatedly in the face, reminding him that this was all bad, nothing good would come of this—and I was now being dragged out to deeper waters, into deeper trouble.

  When the first hint of a wave curled over me, I had not cared, since the intense excitement and pleasure has a way of blinding even the most experienced surfers, and I had needed Erica that badly. Except that now, after having her, and after her breathing was returning to normal and the wave of excitement melted into the beach sand along with the once mighty wave, it wasn’t until she was talking to me . . . that I could finally admit to myself that this wasn’t Erica. I opened my eyes and my vision cleared.

  Not Erica.

  Lorn’s orgasm had ended, and she was holding on to me tightly, and I could feel her chest heaving and she was crying as she whispered, “I’m so sorry for what I did to you; I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  I whispered flatly, “I did, too.”

  Lorn said, “But, you seemed angry, and you wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t let me slow you down. We never made love like that before.” Then she stopped and I could feel her hold her breath as she asked, “Please tell me there isn’t anyone else.”

  “There isn’t anyone else.” I wasn’t lying. There was no one else.

  I could never have Erica.

  Twenty-Five

  People With Dyke Sisters Shouldn’t Throw Stones

  The next day I arrived at camp to find that Erica was already on the roof, instructing Uncle Freddie to hustle as if the men he was working alongside were not a third of his age. She was on a tear about the water damage and they were bowed low, albeit to pound nails, each looking as if they feared to raise their head higher than their ass.

  Erica saw me approach the hall and busied herself with re-nailing the areas where the men had already been. She didn’t look up from her hammering, a steady rhythmic sound: Bang-bang-tap, bang-bang-tap, that unmistakable steady rhythm against the rest. I walked my burning and twisting stomach past the hall.

  Lisa bounded out of the camp store and startled me, “Hey, slut. Aww you changed your clothes, that’s cheating. I was looking forward to the walk of shame.”

  The rhythmic sound stopped on the roof as I felt as if a nail had settled deep into the pit of my chest.

  “Shut it, Lisa,” I hissed.

  “Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”

  She had a point, what was I thinking? Right now I was thinking Lisa had The Voice on, probably the same one that got her fired at her first restaurant job.

  They had given Lisa a trial as a cook, and she confessed to me she liked to pretend the entire wait staff was her team of personal servants. She had been teasing a pretty Latino girl from Day One, who (according to Lisa) had
been flirting with her mercilessly, telling Lisa that she would never go back to “dry white girls” again after her, etc. Of course I wondered how much of this was in my sister’s head.

  On Lisa’s second day, before the restaurant opened, the owner had slipped into the kitchen unannounced just as Lisa had admitted to her kitchen assistant that she was bored and a bored Lisa is a recipe for disaster. She raised her eyebrows and tossed her head in the direction of the Latino girl, who was prepping the tables for the lunch crowd with one of the Irish girls. Lisa, not seeing the boss behind her, slammed her chopping knife down, clapped her hands twice at her assistant, pointed at the Latino girl, and bellowed in her best Henry the Eighth voice, “Bring me the brown one. She amuses me!” The girl thought it was hysterical and laughed her ass off, but Lisa was fired on the spot. (That night, Lisa claims she banged the hot Latino girl and got to use the line again, only changing it to “Bring me one of the white ones,” when the girl brought two Caucasian girlfriends along.)

  I walked away from Lisa, fearing I might smack her for pointing out I never came home last night in front of Erica, but this would repeat a pre-pubescent mistake. I had learned the hard way: I was a fly swatter; Lisa was a bazooka gun with a backup round of ammo.

  Lisa yelled after me, “Seriously, I think you’ve lost your mind!”

  I hated when she was right, and wished I would hear the bang-bang-tap hammering begin again, but as I walked toward the center of the camp, all I could hear was the unsteady tapping of Uncle Freddie and the crew as they pretended not to listen to the Santora sisters squabble. The quiet from Erica’s hammer was chilling. I knew when she was not yelling at the crew or not hammering, she was pissed off beyond measure.

  Or worse, she was hurt.

  I wondered how all this had gotten so out of control so quickly. It had started so tiny at first, that occasional odd feeling in my stomach, a faint tickle, then building to a steady state of euphoric fluttering, which promises something wonderful is about to happen. However, when something wonderful can’t happen, because you’ve fallen in love with the woman your brother loved first, it starts to feel like a stomach flu. A pleasantly fluttering stomach evolves into a churning, acid-filled pit, and the waves of excitement turn to nausea, until you are left walking across a campground with the constant feeling that something terrible is about to happen. And worse, that you very badly want it to.