Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  “As I understand it, if it wasn’t a poem, a pipette, or a protozoa, you ignored it. It’s a wonder you cultivated any social skills at all.”

  “Well, let’s not oversell my ability to work a room.”

  “Sounds like you and Maria share a similar situation. You’re both caregivers.”

  “Yeah, she’s taken me under her wing, so to speak. She hosts a poker party every Sunday night.”

  “Sam, dear, I know your father’s helping you out financially, but that doesn’t mean you should throw away money so carelessly.”

  “What makes you think I don’t win?”

  “Subterfuge ranks up there with jet skiing on the list of things you’re good at.”

  “Point taken. Anyway, the, uh, women who play, they’re all nice.”

  “Mm-hm. And?”

  “And what?”

  “You tell me. You always stammer when you’re holding something back. Just one of your many tells, Kenny Rogers. Clearly you never count your money when you’re sitting at the table, simply because there isn’t any.”

  “Well, they’re all lesbians,” Sam said, sheepishly.

  “Oh? Are they cute?”

  Briefly, she hoped Natalie would be pierced by the sharp sting of jealousy, before she remembered that whatever their relationship was, Natalie wasn’t the jealous type. “Not really. There are six of us. Two are a couple, one’s a gym teacher who could bench press me, and one’s always smacking gum and fawning over Maria.”

  “Seems to me you left one out.”

  “Nope, that’s everyone.”

  “Maria, you bonehead.”

  “Oh. Yeah, she’s cute, if you like curvy Latinas with flawless skin, dark curly hair, and brown eyes that you can drown in.” Sam reflected a moment. “You’d go for her, I’m sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know, you just would.” What she didn’t say was that of course it would be her luck that the two women in her life who kept her sane would go for each other, driving her mad with jealousy.

  “Well, tell me something about her that doesn’t involve her appearance.”

  “You know, what surprises me most about her is how well-read and smart she is for a woman who didn’t go to college.”

  “Oh, Sam. For someone who bemoans how narrow-minded small town America can be, you certainly have an oversimplified definition of what counts as smart.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I’m working on it. Anyway, she’s charming and clever, and although she’s had a lot to deal with, she’s pretty in control of her life. She’s figured out how to make the best of a bad situation. It was actually her idea for Eva to start drawing again. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

  “You had a lot on your plate, Sam. Sometimes we need an outsider’s perspective.”

  “True.”

  “So, let’s recap. She oversees an artist salon, she’s helped your Mom get reacquainted with art, she’s introduced you to the town lesbians, and she’s convinced you to gamble. Ambitious, with good execution. Not bad for only a couple of months.”

  “Oh. Um, we’re also running together.”

  Three thousand miles away, Natalie choked on her espresso. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I was distracted by that pig that just flew by.”

  “Yes, I’m sure there are icicles all over hell; I am indeed engaging in aerobic exercise.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Jury’s still out.”

  “Seems like you two spend a lot of time together,” Natalie asked with a hint of suggestiveness.

  “Not much else to do here,” Sam said.

  “Well, I want to meet her.” Natalie’s tone brokered no debate, and Sam sighed, marveling at her ability to get herself into awkward and potentially painful situations.

  “Of course you do. Fine. You can meet her. There’s not much else to do in this town anyway.”

  And just like that, Sam would be a third wheel. Again.

  “How come when I talk, you two drink?”

  “We also drink when you dance.”

  “And sing.”

  Sam wasn’t sure if she liked Natalie and Maria banding together to tease her. Actually, on second thought, she knew for certain she didn’t like it. The two of them were lounging on a couch in Maria’s basement while Sam held forth on the dance floor. They were all three sheets to the wind, and none of them seemed to mind. Dolores was chaperoning Eva, and Sam was giddy with freedom and Natalie’s presence. For the past thirty minutes, she had alternated between dancing to Lady Gaga songs and expressing what she knew were overwrought opinions about politics and the recent election.

  “I’m happy to see your vocabulary hasn’t atrophied since college,” Natalie said. “Maria, have you ever heard someone refer to a television as an ‘omnipresent simulacrum for the precipitous deterioration of discourse and unremitting degeneration of the American intellect?’”

  “Nope. And I listen to NPR.”

  “Is your problem with my style of articulation or the content of my assertions?” Sam asked, twirling to “Poker Face.” “I love this song!”

  “How does she transition so seamlessly between highbrow and lowbrow?” Maria asked.

  “It’s a well-cultivated skill. She’s done it ever since I’ve known her,” Natalie said.

  “It seems to get more pronounced with alcohol,” Maria said.

  Natalie laughed. “Doesn’t everything?”

  Sam continued, ignoring them. “Fundamentally, Sarah Palin cannot represent politically empowered women in this country because she doesn’t want female emancipation from the patriarchy, with its attendant responsibilities. The harm she causes American women is dual: with her sexy librarian look, she reifies the position of women as objects for the male gaze and surveillance while simultaneously masquerading as a woman who has escaped the very structures she in fact reinforces. By suggesting that she proves women have arrived at true political power, those who support her seek to silence the growing threat to the entrenched order of gender inequality.” She twirled again and resumed singing.

  Natalie and Maria shook their heads at her before announcing together, “Refills!” and pouring the last of the Shiraz into their wine glasses.

  While they swirled the wine in their goblets, Sam finished the rest of hers and headed to the bar to open another bottle. “The lyrics to ‘Poker Face’ are so weird. What do they even mean?”

  “You mean she can explain Sarah Palin in terms of the male gaze but she finds Lady Gaga inscrutable?” Maria asked Natalie.

  “We all have our strengths,” Sam called out from behind the bar. “And I seem to recall you both excel at dancing. I didn’t realize I was going to be doing a private rendition of ‘Dancing with Myself’ here.”

  Natalie slipped off her heels. “My puppies are tired.” Sam glanced at her outfit: while she might have turned her attention away from the public policy degree she was still pursuing, she certainly continued to dress the part. Tonight she wore a starched evergreen shirt tucked into a charcoal pencil skirt with pointy-toed stilettos. Sam had never seen her hair in a bun before. It brought out the green of her eyes, and her tanned skin made Sam’s look positively translucent in its paleness.

  Sam pondered for a moment the differences between the women staring at her. Both were warm, kind, and intuitive. Natalie was nearly as skinny today as when Sam had first seen her that fateful day in the common room at Yale. She might be without direction, but her eyes sparkled with unbridled joy, her laugh came easily, and she fit seamlessly into any situation she found herself. Part of her allure, Sam realized, came from having lived a life surrounded by comfort and love. She saw the best in everyone and was quick to bestow her affections. Maria, in a red-and-black flower print halter dress that stopped mid-thigh, looked sophisticat
ed, the soft cotton hugging feminine curves. She radiated the kind of confidence that came from life experience and the direction Natalie so distinctly lacked. She might not have same educational pedigree, but she was whip-smart. Her eyes, however, revealed a life punctuated by loss, responsibility, and challenge. Her laugh came more slowly, which made its deep melodic sound rewarding. She possessed a strength that mingled incongruously, appealingly, with her vulnerability.

  A surge of love for both of them flooded through Sam. Her wine glass refilled, she headed back to the dance floor.

  “Sam, dear, why don’t you come sit down?” Maria suggested. “Your dancing has been making me dizzy.”

  “You two are no fun.” Still, she complied, sinking into a chair across from the loveseat.

  The ladies on the couch turned to each other. “I think you’re fun, Natalie.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Maria.”

  “Oh brother,” Sam muttered.

  Natalie shifted on the couch. “You two wanna play a game?”

  “What kind of game?” Sam asked, warily.

  “How about ‘Two Truths and a Lie?’” Natalie was almost giddy at her own suggestion.

  “God, I haven’t played that since high school,” Maria mused. “Sure, I’m game. Sam?”

  “Good grief.” Sam rolled her eyes.

  “This is quite the Charlie Brown impression you’re doing. Would you rather we charge you five cents for psychiatric help?” Maria asked.

  “Well, I’m taking my football and going home unless you play along,” Natalie said, using the pout that she knew Sam was powerless to resist.

  Throwing up her hands in defeat, Sam nodded.

  “Actually, I have a better idea,” Maria said. “It’s a variation on ‘Two Truths’ where we each take a turn telling someone else here something we believe is true about her. If the questioner is right, the other person drinks, and if the questioner is wrong then she drinks.”

  “Whatever. You two are juvenile either way, and I’m drinking regardless,” Sam said.

  “Buzzkill,” Natalie said, and turned her attention to Maria. “You lost your virginity at sixteen.”

  “Drink.” Maria didn’t offer any more information than that, and Sam tried not to imagine when and with whom Maria first had sex. “Ok, my turn,” Maria said. “You think yoga solves all your health problems.”

  Natalie grinned broadly and took a healthy gulp of her wine before turning her attention to Sam. “Your turn.”

  “You still have no idea what you want to do with your life,” Sam said to Natalie, who raised her glass in a small salute before drinking for a third time.

  “Looks like I’m losing so far. Okay, Sam. There are things about Stowe that you kind of secretly like.” Natalie winked at her.

  Slowing down the pace of the game considerably, Sam thought for a long time, gazing at her fingers as they wrapped around her wine glass. Finally, she shrugged slightly and tipped back her glass.

  The baton now passed to Maria, who peered at her. “You’ve stopped your nightly forays to Burlington.”

  Paling slightly, Sam attacked her wine a little too enthusiastically, a trickle of it sliding down her chin before she brushed it away.

  Confused, Natalie interjected. “Wait, I don’t know what that means. Can we ask follow-up questions?”

  “Your game, your rules,” Sam said gruffly.

  “Okay, then: the third party gets to ask a single follow-up question. What’s in Burlington?”

  When she failed to come up with a reply, her eyes glued to the floor, Maria filled in. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Our little Sam tried to become a bad girl. Didn’t suit her.”

  “No, I can’t imagine it did,” Natalie agreed. Sam felt their eyes on her, but she continued to study the wood grain on the floor.

  “Sam, it’s your turn,” Maria prodded gently.

  Sam knew that if she weren’t drunk, she might be embarrassed at the bitterness in her reply. In fact, she definitely would be embarrassed. Tomorrow. But it wasn’t tomorrow yet. The tension of the situation was getting to her, and she turned her focus to Natalie.

  “You’ll never settle down.”

  Natalie’s unwavering gaze disconcerted her, and Sam once again looked away.

  “Drink,” Natalie said, quietly. “My turn. Sam, you’ve never really been in love.”

  Choking on her disbelief, Sam snorted. “Drink.” But Natalie shook her head. “I know you, Samantha Latham. And while you may think you have been in love, you haven’t. Drink.” They stared at each other, neither one willing to back down. A brutal thought occurred to Sam: their single night of passion had not been making love, as she’d always thought, but was just another sexual liaison for Natalie. Her cheeks burned as she cast back to that night and the playfulness, the frenzied touching, and the complete lack of shared meaningful glances and words of promise.

  She glanced at Maria, afraid of how much she and Natalie had just revealed. Maria paled and looked away. Seconds ticked away as all three of them sat, lost in embarrassment. Finally, Maria stood. “Sam, dear, will you help me pick out some dessert for us all?” She placed a firm hand on her back, guiding her upstairs toward the kitchen. Sam trembled, whether with anger or fear, she didn’t know. Her irregular breathing gave her hiccups.

  Once they reached the kitchen, Sam walked straight to the sink, placing both hands on the rim and leaning heavily on it. Maria gave her some space, bustling about in the pantry and fridge. Finally she approached Sam, leaning her hip on the counter.

  “You’re waiting for her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.” Sam stared straight ahead.

  “And she doesn’t want you.”

  Sam stiffened. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Is it? I don’t think so.” Maria’s voice was low but firm. “If you want her and she doesn’t want you, it’s a toss-up who’s the bigger fool.”

  Sam turned and studied her face. Maria’s features bespoke a combination of compassion and fire. Suddenly Sam felt tired, worn down and empty. Reaching out to her, Maria gently tucked Sam’s hair behind her ear. “Party’s over now, I think. Do you want her to stay here tonight?”

  “Thanks, but we can manage. We’ve managed like this for years. Don’t see why tonight should be any different.”

  “Well, dear, that’s up to you.”

  “No, it’s really not. It’s always been up to her.”

  “And there’s where you’re very wrong. But I suspect you’ll learn that when you’re ready. Why don’t you go say good night to Pauly? He’s in his room reading.”

  Sam nodded and, turning, walked down the hall. The door to Pauly’s room was slightly ajar, and she peeked inside to find him dozing on his bed, a copy of A Wrinkle in Time resting on his chest. She removed the book and spied a bookmark with an owl and the words, Reading is a hoot. After saving his place and putting the book on his nightstand, she turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

  Lost in thought on her way back to the basement, she was halfway down the stairs when she heard Natalie say, “You’re good for her.”

  “So are you, in your own way. There’s no bad guy here.”

  Silently sitting on the stairs, out of sight, Sam forced down the swell of guilt rising up her throat and listened.

  “I feel like the bad guy,” Natalie said.

  “It’s not your fault you don’t feel the way she wants you to.”

  “I think you’re the only one who believes that,” Natalie said, and the sadness in her voice felt like pinpricks in Sam’s stomach. “Maybe it was a mistake to come here.”

  “No. She needs you. She just needs you differently than she thinks.”

  “I don’t think you can truly be in love with someone if she doesn’t love you back,” Natalie said. “I think you ca
n love deeply, and differently, but I feel like love has to be met with equal love to achieve ‘in love’ status. Sam disagrees.” They were both quiet for a while, and Sam gathered up the courage to stand and trounce down the stairs loudly. Before she moved, Natalie said softly, “I wonder who bears the responsibility for unrequited love? The one who loves, the one who doesn’t, or the gods for playing with us?”

  “Perhaps all of the above.”

  “Mmm. I suppose I should go.”

  “I suppose you should.”

  “Will I see you again before I leave?” Natalie asked, hopefully, and a little sadly.

  “I’d like that, but I don’t think it’s up to us.” Sam could hear them hug. She wasn’t prepared to face either of them, so she snuck back up the stairs, found her coat in the front hall closet, and waited on the front porch, her breath producing little puffs of vapor that vanished just like her tenuous hold on her emotions.

  When they opened the door, a wave of warmth from the house washed over her, but it didn’t do anything to stop the shaking in her fingers, shoulders, or throat. She watched them hug good-bye, and gave Maria a quick and cursory hug herself before hurrying to her car.

  She hoped their tour of the Ben and Jerry’s factory the next day would be less emotionally tumultuous than their evening with Maria.

  It had been three months—a quarter of a year—and Sam had yet to pay back Maria and Pauly for the zucchini bombing.

  She’d thought about scaring the pants off Maria with some elaborate vampire or zombie Halloween prank. But she wasn’t sure how Pauly would fit into that situation, and he was just as guilty of espionage as his sister.

  She’d mulled over executing some hijinks at the restaurant, but she didn’t want to disturb Maria’s customers or mess with her business.

  Eventually she decided that she was thinking too large, and she could achieve an appropriate payback with a series of smaller-scale, more domestic hoaxes. Always meticulous, she drew diagrams, made lists, and schemed with her mother. Two weeks before Christmas, she was ready.

  The Sanchez siblings were headed to a showing of Slumdog Millionare that evening, and Sam finagled an invitation for her and Eva to have breakfast at their place the following morning. While Maria and Pauly were at the movie theater, she piled Eva into the car, and they drove to the vacant Sanchez house.