Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  Balance was the key. As extreme as the club seemed at first glance, it was nothing more than a construct of society. Stripping really didn’t go deeper than that. Anything my work could be compared to — relations between men and women and/or the individual and morality — was just that, a comparison. Not the real thing. I was not the Kinky Cop or the easy-on-the-eyes erotic dancer or even the “Ivy Leaguer.” The real thing was inside me. It was me, my family, those I care for and who care for me.

  The family I lie to.

  I didn’t need to lie, I told myself. I believed in myself. I didn’t just act strong, I was strong. When I expressed myself to New York City “fancy” people I was powerful. I had something to say. People wanted to listen. More important, I wanted to do things and go places. I had drive, determination, power. No one, however, had empowered me. The power came from believing in myself.

  Wasn’t that the American way? The American Dream? I thought back to the beginning of my stripping career. What had protected me? Why wasn’t I a victim? I didn’t choose to be one. I didn’t believe in that. My mother had taught me well.

  My mother. It keeps coming back to her.

  Besides the extraordinary, I believed, against a good deal of evidence otherwise, in balance and justice. I was open to it and found it, little pockets of it here and there. Weren’t extremes a way for a system to adjust itself and restore balance? Extremes are natural and, in the grand scheme of things, healthy.

  Was I justifying my Foxy Lady forays? Applying my analytical mind to my personal anomaly, finding sense in my sensual business moves? Again, I believed in myself. My gut felt good. Those few friends who deeply and sincerely supported me — Erich, Reid, and Isabella — were the best people I had ever known. (Even putting their opinions of me aside.) They understood me and wholeheartedly believed in me. Now that I thought about it, however, I realized these were all people I had given the opportunity to support me. I had never given that chance to my family.

  My writing prospects were heating up. A top agent was helping me revise the book, encouraging me to abandon my fictional approach. He felt it should be autobiographical. I imagined myself on Donahue and Oprah. I had vowed I would never be so disrespectful to my mother that she would hear the truth through a talk show. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I had to tell my family.

  I was as surprised as anyone by the twists and turns my life had taken. Granted, I was instrumental in those changes and developments; they were my responsibility. Since Amateur Night I had learned to do more than trust and exercise faith in myself. I knew now that I should have been as honest as I was confident. Till now I had denied my family the opportunity to believe in me. The step ahead of me was painfully daunting.

  I wasn’t alone, though. Tony had retreated from our relationship again, and although I was committed to him, I didn’t hesitate to turn to my other friends. Erich was there for me, without my even asking. He pushed me over the edge of indecision. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “And you are going to do it. This needs to be over with. You know it, too, Heidi.” Although alternately amazed and bored by American uptightness, he cared enough to understand and sympathize with my situation. And, having visited Bucksport once with me, he knew my family well enough to comprehend the ordeal ahead of me. He also understood how enormously proud my family was of me. “Heidi,” he said as we left Providence in my car, “it’s going to be hard, but it has to be done.”

  Determination did nothing to offset my anxiety in the car on the road to Maine. I could not imagine the responses my announcement would generate. My gut told me nothing. The lie had gone on too long. The situation had become perverted and unnatural. I was floundering in my own lie, all perspective lost.

  I never dreamed I would make a career, book, or valuable life experience out of the decision I’d made almost three years earlier. Now I realized that every moment of my life is my life. Denying and lying is a rejection of my life, my existence. I had thought stripping was just a little adventure, temporary, not significant. It was only a means to an end, I had thought. It was that, and more.

  I could relate it to the world of writing, learning, and worthy experience; it was a part of the human condition. I had described my thoughts on the turns my life had taken to Tony. “It feels like I’ve won the lottery,” I said, astounded and confused. Life was surprising me. I liked it, but wasn’t ready to relax with it yet. What about plans? What about the rat race? What about society?

  Tony sensed that I felt a little guilty about the money and using my image, which I did. “Accept whatever your advantages are and take it as far as you can,” he responded. “If your looks get you in a door, it is still up to you to handle the rest. As far as stripping goes, you are taking what is valuable and leaving the rest. What’s wrong with that?”

  Nothing, I thought. It certainly was not a waste of my time, talents, or mind. The money was real. The school it paid for was real. My writing was real. My financial security was real. The difference the money had made in my life was real.

  Mom’s reaction will be real, too, and painful.

  The long drive passed quickly. Erich entertained me with stories of the Olympics in Barcelona and his new life in New York. In good spirits we arrived in Bucksport to a celebration. “Heidi is here!” Rebecca cheered from the porch, Ben barking nervously, on his leash. My mother had made meatza pie, one of my special childhood dinners. Various relatives called the house urging me to stop by for cookies and catching up. My sisters gathered around to be sure not to miss one of Heidi’s rare Bucksport appearances. I noticed that Mom had dug out some sheet music, both her favorites and mine, for me to play on the old piano. She was so thoughtful. I knew she had spent the day cleaning and preparing for me.

  “I told the ladies at the nursery, ‘Heidi’s writing a book and is going to be a famous author,’” Mom gushed during dinner. “They all ask what the title is. I told them ‘It’s a secret, probably something really special!’“ She laughed, reveling in her victory. Her daughter Heidi was a success. She had succeeded as a mother!

  Her joy chilled me. It was misplaced, based on false pretenses — my false pretenses. I felt so guilty.

  I am guilty.

  Erich and I exchanged looks of concern. This was bad. I had really set them up. Expertly covering my tracks, I had given them no warnings and no reason to expect any news was coming their way. Erich and I knew, beyond a doubt, that we would not leave until I had told my family the truth.

  I allowed the first evening to pass quietly. My mother and I caught up. Who had a new baby, how Grammy’s arthritis was, how many in the Evanses’ new litter of puppies. I treasured the time we spent together that night, stolen as it was. I was afraid it was the last. Everything had a hidden meaning. She asked about the book, hoping for a little sneak preview. My hesitancy worried her. “Are you going to be in danger for writing this?”

  “Mom, no,” I whined, a bit curtly. (She probably thought I was tired from the trip.)

  “Why don’t you write a children’s book?” she said for the umpteenth time. “I always thought you could write a good children’s book. Maybe something about that sick seagull you carried up from the river, or the chipmunk you smuggled into your bed …”

  “Someday, Mom, I will, I will,” I agreed. My duplicity sickened me, and the surprising fact that I slept soundly that night only contributed to my guilt the next morning.

  Mom and I were alone in the kitchen. Erich was still asleep, Rebecca was mucking out stalls at the farm she worked at, and Dad had already left for work. My older sisters, Cindy and Kristine, had their own places a few miles away.

  “Good morning,” I said. I was nervous.

  She smiled and shooed the cats out the door. “I’m going into town, want anything?”

  Yeah, I want to tell you … “Uh, no,” I managed.

  “Does Erich drink coffee? Your father has some instant in the cupboard.”

  “Thanks, Mom. OK. ‘Bye.”

 
I was miserable, my head of steam lost. I decided to warm up with a sister. Cindy was the most available. Erich and I met her on her lunch break from the flower shop. I took the plunge quickly, irritated with myself for failing to tell Mom that morning. She was more interested than shocked, and relieved once I told her there was no touching. When she realized that I was preparing to tell Mom my news she commiserated. We talked it over, but I was antsy now, eager to get it over with. Now there was no turning back. I wasn’t going to place Cindy in the awkward position of sharing my lie. That would be rude.

  If that’s rude, what’s two years of lies? Impolite? A slight affront?

  After lunch with Cindy, Erich and I drove to the ocean. I didn’t want to put it off any longer, I was in a state of suspended dread, but I wanted to be sure Mom was home by the time we returned. Erich, having seen Maine only once before, appreciated the coastal scenery. We ventured out on the rocks and found a sunny nook. “Let’s sit for a while,” he said. We did, me nestled in front of him, between his legs, his long arms hugging me close. The wind was steady and strong, but we were protected, and we could see the surf crashing against huge sheets of granite. Seagulls squawked, fighting over bits of shellfish. Erich whispered in my ear, “This is going to be a good thing, Heidi.”

  “Oh, I know, I know. I just have to do it.” My voice caught, overwhelmed by fear.

  “You do. This lie is holding you back. It’s time for you to be happy. You’ve accomplished so much, been fighting so long.”

  “Why do I feel like such a wimp, then?” I demanded, twisting my head around to look at him.

  “Wimp? What do you mean?”

  “Here I am, practically crying! And, look! I’m leaning all over you — and I don’t mean the way we’re sitting.”

  He laughed softly. “Heidi, you’re not a wimp. You’re the toughest woman I’ve ever known. Look at everything you’ve done, alone.”

  “Yeah, but Erich, I just did what I had to do —”

  “And you never stopped to rest! Afraid to be distracted. Why do you think you’ve stayed with Tony so long? He’s a workaholic. He fits into your lifestyle. A safe place to park your emotions.”

  I turned away. That made me want to cry more. He was right. More upsetting, however, was the realization that my life was changing. For the better, yes, but I was comfortable being a warrior, walking my tightrope, never looking down.

  “This honesty thing is pretty important,” I said quietly.

  “You’re going to be so relieved. You’ll be able to move on, with the book, your personal life, your family

  “I don’t know about that. My sisters, yes, but Mom …” The tears began again, but I stopped them, refusing to drag this out any further. The stress was worsening. “Erich, my stomach is hurting me. We’ve got to get back. I’ve got to get this over with.”

  He held me tight for just a moment, then, standing, pulled me up. I turned to look at him, touched by his obvious love and regard for me. He brushed my flying hair back from my face. “You’re right, let’s go.”

  Erich and I returned to Bucksport in time for dinner. Mom was intent on feeding us well. The house was warm, the heat turned up for the special occasion — visitors from out of town. I settled Erich into the living room and he immediately got cozy with an old National Geographic. Rebecca and her neurotic dog Ben were channel surfing. (Cable had finally reached Bucksport and released my family from the years of a CBS monopoly.) Spaghetti was boiling on top of the stove, the table was set, and Mom was cheerfully preparing salad. My dread hung over me like a constantly buzzing pall, growing louder and louder. I felt I might shatter if I took a deep breath. I knew it was time.

  I walked

  the plank

  into the kitchen. Mom was cutting lettuce, with a sharper than necessary knife.

  She’s armed! Not a good time, Heidi.

  I fetched tomato and cucumber from the refrigerator and placed them next to the cutting board. Casual conversation was impossible with the blood slowing to a crawl in my veins. I tried, “Uh, umm …”

  Nothing came to mind.

  She chopped, utterly innocent, oblivious to the wild pitch I was about to throw her.

  “Remember when Brown pulled my aid?” I began nonchalantly, but she didn’t miss the fear in my voice. She looked at me. I managed to sneak a whisper past the paralysis in my throat. “And I took a job to stay in school?” The open anticipation and questions in her face were clouded by a fierce defensiveness when she saw my tears beginning.

  Her chopping slowed. She sighed, as if suddenly very, very tired. “Oh, Heidi” — she turned to look at me — “you were a prostitute?” she asked in a low voice, hoping she was wrong.

  I shook my head, unable to vocalize no. I was momentarily offended that she would say that, but I knew she was only bluffing. Besides, I was here for her benefit. I was well beyond being offended. I was offering my neck and the noose. My tears increased. I wasn’t crying for me. I wasn’t ashamed and I wasn’t sorry. I was crying for her. This was going to kill her.

  And me, if she doesn’t put that knife down.

  She began to move the vegetables around. I think she knew her night was ruined. She knew I wouldn’t be crying like this if it wasn’t going to be unwelcome news. But she didn’t know how much I was about to destroy. I didn’t underestimate the damage I had caused by lying. That is why I felt like I was jumping off a cliff. There would be no way back. Nothing would ever be the same. I wasn’t the Heidi she was so proud of.

  Crying harder, I finally told her. “I took up topless dancing and that is what I wrote the book about.”

  She didn’t look at me. She walked over to the stove, as if about to check the spaghetti. Slowly she began to shake her head back and forth. “Oh, Heidi,” she finally said, thick disappointment dripping off my name.

  It was done. The pieces of our relationship would fall where they must. It was out of my hands. I couldn’t enjoy any relief, however, because my mother’s disappointment engulfed me like a huge breaker at the beach. It buried me and rolled around and around, suffocating me. I didn’t struggle. It was Mom’s show now.

  “So, you take all your clothes off,” she said, not looking at me. Her mind was still processing my news. Her statement didn’t seem to require a response. I don’t think she cared at the moment.

  “No,” I answered anyway. I was vaguely pleased to lessen the severity of her imagination. I remembered the horrors I had imagined years ago, and my fear when I first entered the club. Whatever my mother was thinking had to be as bad, if not worse. I was prepared to accept her onslaught. I couldn’t — and wouldn’t — blame her.

  “It is only topless, Mom. Bottoms never come off,” I assured her, my tears slowing. I hoped we could talk about it.

  She didn’t care. She was still in shock, but not so deeply to keep her from being mean.

  “So you make money” — she turned, looked me over with deep disdain, and indicated my chest — “with those?”

  I looked at her mutely, sobbing quietly. Defeated. There was no explaining stripping.

  She turned away. Her feelings were beginning to register. Surely, she was remembering all the lies. Every time she sent a couple of dollars with a letter and every time I avoided the issue of my “waitressing” job. Now it was adding up. And the book — that was ruined, too. She became silently furious and her tears matched mine as her face became bright red. She had come to a decision: “I have failed miserably as a mother. You have no morals, no work ethic.” Her wonder grew as she voiced these realizations. Finally, she turned to me, dread settled over her entire body. The chill in her voice made icicles of her every word. “I don’t want to talk about this or your book ever again.”

  Instructing me to eat, she disappeared into the bedroom and firmly shut the door behind her. The house was small, with all the common areas connected. I was comforted that Erich had heard the conversation. I didn’t need to give him a report. As I turned the corner he was lookin
g up at me from the couch, magazine abandoned.

  “She doesn’t want to hear about the book,” I croaked, sobbing and swallowing wretchedly. He was silent, allowing me to recover, knowing that his presence was the only support I had.

  Rebecca, who had taken Ben out for a walk, peeked from around the door, letting in a blast of cold air. The dog pushed past her and bounded toward me, snow flying off his paws. She entered cautiously. Having sensed impending doom, she had sought refuge on the deck with Ben.

  “What’s going on?” she asked halfheartedly, not quite sure she really wanted to know.

  She looked so cute, with a serious expression on her baby face. And the subject was so horribly serious that I laughed, idiotically, while the tears streamed down my face. Ben licked at them, making Rebecca laugh, too. “Mom says to eat without her,” I managed to say, leading Erich to the stove.

  “OK,” Rebecca said, being a real sport. She filled her plate and once the three of us were seated at the table I struggled to find the words. She looked at me quizzically, a little afraid.