Camptown Ladies
Page 31
“No! Go! Will you just go? Take the ladder, and go. Please. Go before Vince finds out you came for me. I won’t ruin what you have with him, with your family, just because you think you can’t let this go. Because you can, just like I have, or like I did.”
Now Erica was crying hard and I wanted to move toward her again, but she was too close to the edge and my stomach lurched at the fear of her falling backward to get away from me, not to mention my own memory of falling for this woman on a roof, in more ways than one.
Instead of moving toward her, I lowered myself down to the roof until I was kneeling on the shingles, still warm from the disappearing sun. I imagined I looked like one of those tacky religious paintings, a woman kneeling in a nightgown with the backdrop of an Italian garden and countryside in the distance, the thick and dramatic clouds in the sky leaving open areas where the sun still blasted through in rays, like God was shining a spotlight down on his flock. (Except that I was on top of a roof, begging for a lesbo lover.)
I also imagined my Aunt Aggie peeking through one of the holes in the clouds, her giant eye behind her horn-rimmed glasses that, by some miracle, seemed comically back in style, and I imagined her shouting down that I was making a fool of myself in the rain. She would have been right. I knelt there and waited, knowing that while I’d had days to think about the possibility of finding her in Italy, Erica had only minutes to absorb the idea of me being here.
When she finally seemed convinced I would not come any closer, she calmed down a little as she wiped her face with the shoulder of her t-shirt. Then she shook her head again, this time slowly, sadly as she said, “You can let this go, just like I did.” she said. “I just hate that I have to do it all over again. Now I have to imagine that you could be here, too, instead of just in my dreams.”
Then she moved closer to me and grabbed me by the shoulders and pleaded, softly, but still so angry, “Why did you have to come here?” Then she knelt down in front of me as if she had given up, and hung her head down, crying invisible tears as the sky opened up and dumped buckets of heavy rain on us.
I was about to answer, to tell her everything, when the increasing roar of what I assumed was insanely close thunder turned out to be the engine of a speeding flatbed truck below us. We looked over the roof edge to the gravel road, where the careening truck sent workers scattering as it made a wild half-circle close to the house, kicking up mud, and finally skidding to a hard stop. I heard Uncle Freddie’s laugh as Frederica leaned out and waved wildly to us from the passenger seat, shouting God knows what to us in Italian. When Lisa jumped out from the driver’s seat, I knew Erica was thinking what I was: She should have recognized her driving.
Lisa yelled casually, “Hey there, Erica, hope you’re not getting too comfy here! We’ll be needing you back at Camptown Ladies. I have huge expansion plans!”
Erica looked back at me, confused. Her cheeks, which before were streaked with tears in the dust, were now washed clean by the rain. Erica looked back to the truck to see Lisa prying Vince by the seat of his pants as he backed out of the tiny back seat. Lisa took joy in flinging him into the rain. He lost his footing and landed on his ass on the ground. He looked up at us with a giant smile and awkwardly waved his hand covered in mud.
“Hey, Erica,” Vince said, “I thought I’d bring both my sisters over, you know, so you could take your pick.” Then he laughed at his own joke as Lisa helped him up.
I said softly to Erica, “Vince is happy. He fell in love with Buddy’s mom, Katie. And he wants us to be happy, if you still want to be with me.”
She blinked at me, bewildered, and I leaned closer to her, taking her face in both of my hands. “Will you let me love you? It’s OK now, if you still want this. I love you, Erica. If you still want this.”
Erica breathed out a gasp of air and said, “Is this really happening?”
“If you want it to,” I said.
She slowly nodded yes as I felt my own tears warm my cheeks in the rain.
Vince yelled up, “Mare, friggin’ kiss her already before you both get struck by lightning!”
We both knew I had already been struck by lightning. Still, I kissed Erica anyway and Erica fell against me at last, her arms no longer holding me stiffly away, and we kissed as the sheets of rain washed over us both. It was sweet how she tightened her grip on me as if I might pull away. Not a chance. Not ever. This was the woman I would spend the rest of my life with. Even as I was ecstatically holding her, I knew also that my happiness came from knowing my brother and sister were sharing this with me.
With her impeccable timing, Lisa bellowed from below, “Marie, you fucking imbecile, you really need to get some clothes on!” She was pointing up to me. “Your wet nightgown is giving the crew a perfect view of tits and ass crack! Then, in case they missed it, Lisa turned to the crew and yelled, and pointed, “Look, a vagina!”
Vince and Lisa’s laughter mixed with Erica’s, which was warm against my neck, as she still gripped me tightly. I could hear Uncle Freddie laughing as he translated to his niece, Frederica, so she could laugh at me, too. At Lisa’s call, the crewmen circled the house to see what a woman in a completely transparent nightgown looks like holding a gorgeous woman on a rooftop. A few seconds later, although she had been the one who called them over, Lisa now swatted and chased them away from the view, and Frederica joined her as they made the workers scurry back under the roof of the house. The whole scene was bursting in equal parts laughter, fear, love, and chaos: Lisa’s favorite recipe.
I held onto Erica as I looked over her shoulder, up to the sky, silently thanking the heavens of Italy raining above the expertly shingled clay roof. It was more than just knowing I had found the love of my life. It was knowing that my sister, brother, and even my Aunt Aggie would always be there to watch my back—ass crack and all.
A Note From The Author
After Greetings From Jamaica, Wish You Were Queer was published, I asked readers to drop me an e-mail (specifically, only those who’d liked the book), then reaped the rewards, since my e-mail address is hard to forget if you read the entire address out loud: MariLaughs@cox.net Go ahead, I’ll wait as you try it. Getting feedback from readers turned out to be a bit addictive too. I loved finding out what particular thing a reader liked or what made them laugh, and some readers went so far as to supply quotes from the book, which I read, of course. Some extra-conscientious readers took the time to list any spelling or grammar mistakes, and those were fun to read, too. (Not really.)
However, it takes a brave (or idiotic) woman to admit my favorite thing to read was the downright ego-stroking letters that made writing the book worth all the weekends spent staring at my computer. I have to say, I’m tempted to print out these gushing letters, get naked, and roll all over them like a pig in—well, you know. Would that be wrong?
OK, I’m back. And it didn’t feel wrong. Not at all.
Back to my story. On the arrival of the ninetieth fan e-mail from my first book (yes, I was counting back then), I found out I was getting a bit cocky. This was the day an e-mail arrived with the subject line: “Greetings From California!” This was also the day I leaned back in my chair and sang out to myself: “Another faaaaan letterrrrrr!” (Now, in my defense, this was a legitimate assumption since many of the letters had come with headings that made had made this play on words from the title of my first book, tied in with the state where the reader lived. (For example: Greetings from New York! Greetings From Colorado!) Just as I settled myself in, sighing as if the hardship of preparing for another ego-stroking had become a bit of an imposition on such a lovely day, I was promptly deflated, much like the appendage the e-mail was marketing to:
Greetings From California!
Mister Mario Sangloviany, YOU WAN BIG-LONG HARD COCK THAT NEVER GET THE SMAL ALL THE NITE LONG??!
Well, maybe. Never get the small all the night long would certainly be nice. But, that isn’t really the point. I saved that e-mail with the other “fan letters” and
if there is a moral to the story, it might be: Just when you expect to get your ass kissed, you might be getting your big, long, hard cock (or vagina) swindled. Or maybe the message is: My apologies to anyone who took the time to write me one of the awesome letters I received, since this one has become my favorite. What does that say about me? Not sure. What does it say about you? Well, you were crazy enough to buy the sequel, so, you are loved (by me). Now, please go tell all your friends, and also tell them F-ing no way, they can’t borrow your copy. Thanks.
Once again, I dyke-gress, since the whole point of this author’s note was to thank readers of my first book for taking the time to write me, or visit me at a book signing, or for harassing me, ever so gently, to write another book. This book exists only because readers told my publisher they liked the first book, or because they took the time to post a kind review. And thank you, sincerely, for being kind enough to buy your own copy of this book, instead of borrowing a friend’s copy, even in this crappy economy. You are a friend to writers everywhere when you “Recommend; Don’t Lend” a book you like (especially mine). As the specialty publishing industry struggles, getting the word out about books and independent films you like, will help more to get made. Trust me, it isn’t about the money (because there is none). It’s all about getting more copies of the book out there so the demand will be there for the next book, or possibly, a film.
This book is dedicated to my number one partner in crime, Kim (Amylon) SanGiovanni, who does not legally have my last name, but who gives a flying F what the government thinks. Kim is the love of my life, the best person I know, my biggest (and totally undeserved) cheerleader, my first reader-editor and “fan,” and I owe everything to her, especially my happiness. At the time I am writing this, she faces the health battle of her life, and faces it every day with a reassuring smile for the people around her to see. Brave is a ridiculous word for me to use—she is the happiest person I know, even now, even with this hand she was dealt.
Now for some other buttocks-smooching. I’d like to thank some amazing people who have gone out of their way to encourage me, promote my stuff, or, more importantly, to help me get through a most difficult year: A huge thank you to my sister, Nisa SanGiovanni, for her constant support of Kim and me, and her relentless promotion of my first book, and to my publishers Kelly Smith and Marianne K. Martin for their continuing commitment and support of my ludicrous stories and sophomoric boob jokes and their love and support throughout this year. They believed there were enough people who shared my (sick) sense of humor, so thanks to you for proving them right. Thanks also to the amazing promotional efforts of Michele Karlsberg and comedian Kate Clinton.
Thanks also to the fabulous women at Womencrafts store in Provincetown, MA for making us feel so welcome to share their beautiful store during our author events—they support women’s fiction, and now more than ever, independent bookstores need us to support them. Thanks to the ladies at Gabriel’s at the Ashbrooke Inn (also in Provincetown, MA) for their hospitality and for one of my favorite places to write, especially in the winter, and for their permission to include their Inn (and themselves) in this book.
Thanks also to my agent Lou Viola, who took on representation of my screenplays, even with the challenge of marketing a subject matter to Hollywood that does not target comic-book-reading, 18–21 age males. Might there be producers, directors, or investors that feel the same way we do? (**Insert cricket noises here**) It never hurts if readers ask for movies to be made in the reviews of books that they like. Hint, hint.
Beyond my entire family, both the Italian side and the non-gifted side (but especially my sister Nisa and my brother Tony, who have pushed my book like Italian thugs to a bunch of their friends), I want to say thanks to the following people who went out of their way to read my book and go overboard with their encouragement in so many ways: Debbie Riley, Carolyn Williams, Joan Opyr, Bett Norris, Andi Marquette, Val McDermid, Stacy Homan, Rachel Henry, Cynn Chadwick, Loretta Stromberg (and her mom), Valerie Graff (who gets the long-distance award), Keith Cameron, Kellie Schumm, Debbie Druce, Frann Stahlbush, Vivian Nolan, Gerri Marcoccio, Yvonne Perry from Writers In Sky, Liz & Danni from Pancakes and a Valium, Melinda Finnegan (who wants to cast the movie), Dolly DiSantis DiPrete (my aunt, who wants to be in the movie), Julie Twombly, Qrkiegrl, Mimi Torchin, Liron Cohen, Kimmy Turrisi and Crystal Chappell. Thanks also to Options News Magazine, Out & About Travel, and AfterEllen.com for their great review of my first book, and thanks to all my Facebook and Twitter friends for their continued support and friendship, some who continually promote my writing for me every week—I wish I could name every single one of you here!
A special mention to the people from whom I have “borrowed” an anecdote, fictionalizing and totally mangling all the details to suit my idea of what is funny. Beyond my immediate family, who I steal stories from all the time, thanks to: Debbie Riley, Sara Riley, Clara Mederois, and also to Adriana, my “sister” from way, way, way down south. (Disclaimer: they did not contribute any of the tales of bad taste; I take sole and full credit for these.) Thanks also to the brilliant Donna Deitch, the director of Desert Hearts, the film based on the book by Jane Rule. No infringement intended, as this is a total homage to one of my favorite movies and the first lesbian movie I ever saw in the theater, way back in the mid-eighties—and it blew my mind. I was five. (OK, I was a teenager, but who’s counting?) Also, a random, but very special thanks to Howard Stern from the Howard Stern Show for promoting my book on his show. Check it out on YouTube or on my website and make sure to hang on till the end to hear how Howard says he will never read the book followed by his juicy burp. My brothers and Dad were so proud, as was I. The real shocker: He pronounced my name right. I can die a happy woman.
I hope I get the chance to meet more readers who have contacted me or taken the time to post a kind review of my book, and if we do meet, be sure to bring a copy of your review so we can put them on the floor, get naked, and roll all over them right in front of you, or at least give you a hug for your effort. Please hunt me down on Facebook or GreetingsFromJamaica.com, or marisangiovanni.com—especially if you have a way to help the Santora family become a film. I know it’s a long shot, but I would love to see a movie theater, or, at least my living room, filled with a bunch of loud (Italian) lesbians, who I hope will leave their tomatoes at home.
xoxo
Mari
Copyright © 2011 by Mari SanGiovanni
Bywater Books, Inc.
PO Box 3671
Ann Arbor MI 48106-3671
All rights reserved.
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without the express written permission of Bywater Books.
Bywater Books First Ebook Edition: April 2012
Bywater Books First Edition: December 2011
Cover designer: Mari SanGiovanni
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-93285-987-4
This novel is a work of fiction.
All characters and events are fictitious and
are products of the author’s imagination.
Bywater Books
GREETINGS FROM JAMAICA,
WISH YOU WERE QUEER
Mari SanGiovanni
“I picked up the lesbian novel Greetings from Jamaica, Wish You Were Queer, by Mari Sangiovanni, and was immediately annoyed when the book jacket warned, ‘this book may make you laugh out loud in public.’ I’m always suspicious of books that say something like that, but damn if I didn’t actually laugh out loud while reading it—seve
ral times, in fact. I hate it when the anonymous book blurb writers are right!”—AfterEllen.com
Maria Santora has always known her Italian family is a little crazy, but when she inherits her grandmother’s estate, they now have a million reasons to act nuts. And with millions at stake, it will take more than a free vacation to Jamaica to get the eratic Santoras to toe the line.
Climb aboard this hilarious rollercoaster ride where Marieis left wishing “out” was the new “in,” and where every loundge chair is a hot seat when the Santora family ventures this close to the equator. The island of Jamaica just may not be big enough . . .
Ebook ISBN 978-1-93285-987-4
Available at your local bookstore
or call 734-662-8815
or order online at www.bywaterbooks.com
Bywater Books
80% DONE WITH STRAIGHT GIRLS
Mari SanGiovanni
Love and loss should not be this funny, but the entire Santora family has descended upon Marie again, just when Marie is sure she doesn’t need them anymore. After losing Erica she has made a vow to be done with straight girls once and for all. Then her ex makes a house call and puts her willpower to the test, proving that desperate times really do call for desperate measures.
Meanwhile, Marie’s sister Lisa has ditched her gay campground in favor of becoming a celebrity chef. Lisa makes a career for herself by channeling her dead Aunt Aggie and the spirits of dead relatives while she cooks. She sees them squabbling, insulting, and love taping each other to get fresh dibs on all the ingredients and she follows their lead. Lisa and her “ghosts” invent dishes like the heavenly “Pasta Fa Brawl” and the audience loves it as she takes talk shows by storm. After all, who says playing with ghosts from the past can’t be fun and profitable?