Follow the Sun

by Sophia Rhodes

  I never had the heart to tell my father. The incidents were so short – a slap, a shove - and left no marks other than an indelible script written with invisible ink on the pages of my childhood psyche. As I grew, I also grew patient of my mother, of the brutality of her ego and the fragility of her temper. To tell the truth, I actually felt a little sorry for her.

  How does someone grow to be that cruel? I wrote in my hidden diary when I was thirteen. Did she ever feel oppressed and hurt by her own parents?

  How could she go about her day, shopping and having lunches with her friends, and live with herself, forgive herself, look at herself in the mirror and know in her heart that she put bruises on her own daughter? What could make someone so arrogant that she can do no wrong, admit no fault, and look no further than her one child as the source of all aggravations? How sad could my mother be inside?

  Seeing herself grow old did nothing to appease her temper. Each time she stared at her reflection, her eyes went soft and dreamy, absorbed by the image that stared back, reacting as though she was looking at an hourglass running out of sand instead of her own face. She was obsessed with time, owning several pairs of watches – one with a band of crocodile skin, another marked by a gold face and with a minuscule diamond lodged at twelve o’clock. She’d even set the clock on the wall to chime on the half-hour.

  Terrified of old age, she began her morning rituals with an ice face-bath and ended it with several layers of exfoliating lotions followed by a dollop of cold cream, which she applied religiously, spreading the oils with circular motions of her index and middle fingers.

  I knew that she saw Albert as her last chance of nailing a “good catch” before her looks slipped further. Perhaps this was why she’d been so desperate to please him and transform into whatever he wanted her to be. So, finding herself in the company of an intolerant bigot, she decided to mold herself into his clone, his faithful doppelganger – and by default gave way to the darkness that had always existed in herself. It came bubbling up inside her heart like a volcano and swallowed up the last relics of kindness she may have still possessed.

  I brushed my hair as best I could considering I could hardly lift my arms over my head. While changing into an airy yellow checkered dress, I felt my stomach growl. Undaunted by the previous night’s abuse, my body made its needs known, and what it needed most was food.

  I gingerly opened the door and looked down the hall. Hearing no voices, I ventured down toward the kitchen. My mother’s voice startled me, making me nearly jump out of my skin. “There’s some chicken leftovers in the fridge if you want to make yourself a sandwich.”

  She was sitting at the dining table reading a newspaper and didn’t lift her eyes away from the gossip column. She had one leg crossed over another and kept jerking it to and fro impatiently, waiting for the nail polish on her toes to dry.

  I went to the fridge, took out the covered platter of chicken, a jar of mayo and a tomato and made myself a plate of food that I took back into my room. I ate it lying on my side in bed, propped up on my elbow while I opened my well-tattered copy of Great Expectations. As much as I wanted to read, I found myself scanning the same page over and over, unable to register a word. In frustration, I put the book aside and closed my eyes. Why couldn’t I focus?

  An image of Rosario popped in my head. I tried to push it away instinctively – she seemed a whole world away from here, like a hazy dream that cannot stand the light of day. My mind wandered back to the tautness of her body as she lifted those crates, to the uninhibited joy in her voice. A girl like that wouldn’t take shit from anybody. I couldn’t imagine her stepfather trying to beat her up. More likely she’d put him in the hospital.

  I’d have given anything to have that kind of strength. To tell the world to go to hell and just be myself – dress how I liked, take everything at face value. Rosario reminded me of my great-grandmother Diana after whom I’d been named – by all accounts she’d had that infectious fire inside her that could light up anything she touched. Why didn’t I inherit it too? Where was my fire, my defiance of the status quo? Why did I turn out so meek?

  Anger rose up in my chest. What’s stopping me? Why have I always listened to that god-awful little voice at the back of my head that tells me to sit back down, to not question my superiors, to be a good little girl? Where has obedience led me but here, laying black and blue in bed, an invalid on a hot summer day?

  In a fit of rage, I threw the plate against the wall and watched it shatter on impact. I heard mother’s muffled voice drift over from the other room, asking what happened, and I yelled back, “Nothing, just a little accident. I’ll clean it up.”

  “Next time be more careful,” she called back.

  I will be more careful, I gritted my teeth.

  I made myself scarce the rest of the week, volunteering to help the elderly neighbor with planting her shrubbery and a new rose bush. On hands and knees, elbow-deep in dirt, I felt content. I watched my fingers as they prodded earth over the roots of the rosebush. They were long and thin and just as translucent as the spidery roots I was blanketing. Mud caked thick under my nails, bringing me a sense of relief – at least for now I didn’t have to worry about being looking perfect. I relished in the grime and filth, and I could honestly say that I never loved dirt more than today. On several occasions I was this close to rolling across the yard as carefree as a piglet.

  As Saturday approached, my thoughts increasingly drifted to Rosario. I lay in bed at night, blankets pulled over my head, but sleep refused to come. Instead, strange thoughts preoccupied my mind. Surely she would go to perform at that bar she’d talked about. I chewed on a strand of hair, musing. What did queers do in those bars? Do they dance like regular people? Do they sit and smoke and talk about all sorts of queer things? Do they make love in the alleyways behind those premises?

  Would it really be safe to go to such a place? I immediately regretted asking myself the question. Why would I even think about going? Was I completely nuts? How could I consider such a thing?

  My hand slipped downward, past the edge of my nightgown. With a racing heart, I slipped my fingers between my legs. My breath quickened at the sensation of wetness. As I touched myself in a way I seldom had before, a single image suddenly popped into my mind: Rosario next to me in that Studebaker. The smile on her lips and the intensity behind her blazing eyes. The cheerful expression she bore when she told me that everybody could do just about anything they wanted to do. She wasn’t a person who would ever let anything get in her way of doing as she pleased.

  A jolt of pleasure made me gasp aloud. Up until now I’d been attributed the flurries in my stomach to the queasiness that had followed me after Monday night’s beating. But now an unavoidable realization took a hold of me: I didn’t know why, I didn’t know how, except that I had to see Rosario Vargas again.

  In some strange and twisted way, it was as if she held in her custody a mysterious key that could unlock all my uncertainties; if I came to be in her presence again, everything would be clarified. An “Open Sesame” kind of door would blast open inside me, allowing me to decide on what to do with my life.

  I reasoned that I was drawn to her because she was totally certain of herself, of what she wanted, and I had to figure out how to do that too. The only friend I had who came close to possessing that kind of self-confidence was Debbie back in Boston, not that I could telephone her since she was on vacation to Europe for the entire summer.

  Despite the sense of dread growing in the pit of my stomach and the curious way it fueled the heat between my legs, I had to see Rosario. Even if I turned into a blubbering, silly schoolgirl who couldn’t say two words in her presence. Even if hell opened right afterwards and I fell straight into its high bonfires, forced to spend eternity racked out on burning coals, poked and prodded at with sharpened pitchforks.

  But I just had to see her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stepped off the number 2 Yellow Bus at the 38th Avenue stop.
The moon sat high and luminescent in the sky although it was only a little after nine. A faint fragrance of smoke drifted through the air, bringing forth an essence of jasmine and tobacco. A chill ran through me and I pulled my ivory sweater over my shoulders, a pearl guard securing the two sides together with sturdy gold-tone clips. Uncertain of what to expect, I walked nervously toward Central Avenue, still in awe of how I’d managed to get out of the house.

  It hadn’t been easy. I prepared mother early in the day by telling her I was catching a movie at the Panorama Theater with my new friend from high school, Maureen. She gestured that it was ok with a nod, watching me closely from behind a curved eyebrow. A fake smile pasted on my lips, I vacuumed the entire house and offered to make soup for supper.

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Albert and I are going out for dinner,” she said, eying me suspiciously. “When did you say you were returning?”

  “About ten-thirty. If we don’t go out for milkshakes after. Would it be okay if we did?”

  “Don’t push it, missy. I’ve half a mind to ground you after the stunt you pulled at Pierce.”

  I lowered my eyes and waited. Finally, she gave in. “Oh, all right. Just be back no longer than eleven. Look at me.”

  “Yes, Ma?” I said innocently.

  “Eleven, you hear? If you’re not in the house by the time we’re back, you’ll think Monday was a day at the park. Understand?” She was satisfied with my nod and waved me away. “Go on, I know you’re itching to get ready.”

  An hour and a pile of dresses strewn over my bed later, I stood in front of my dresser, pleased with my decision. It was a sleeveless burgundy chiffon one-piece that flowed like a dream over a starchy crinoline underskirt. It was gloriously simple, an expanse of wine-colored dark red with a lovely rounded collar, and I found it pretty especially because of that simplicity.

  I waited for mother and Albert to leave before I made my departure. If they saw me they would question why I was so overdressed for a movie and might put two-and-two together, so only when I heard the door slam did I breathe out in relief. Catching the bus at the corner of Sepulveda, I rode it for five stops and transferred to the Number 2.

  With crimson lipstick to match my dress and long hair spilling in blonde waves over my shoulders, I drew stares on the bus. I kept my head down and kept checking my watch, trying to give off the vibe of a dame hurrying to meet a beau at some chic restaurant downtown so nobody would bother me.

  Rosario said it’s at 38th and Central, I kept repeating in my head. I hadn’t dared bring myself to dial Information and get the exact address. Oh God, I hope she’s there, please let her show up! I prayed silently. I refused to conceive of any other reality but that – of course she’d be there, playing the guitar as she said she did every Saturday night.

  Central Avenue was dazzling and cheery, colored lights flashing from a myriad of club billboards. Several theatres made their homes along this strip, along with bright cafes that emanated the aroma of coffee and incense in the air. People sat inside the windows of those cafes, sipping their drinks and having a laugh. A car sped by and I ignored the catcalls directed my way. I felt quite safe to walk on my own, observing to the left and right of me the dancing lights spilling over the sidewalk.

  Suddenly, I was there. I recognized the name of the place, Brothers, painted in Art Deco white letters onto a plaque hung over an indescript set of black doors. Was this really it? How many other places called Brothers are there at this intersection? I took a big sigh. All right then.

  Grasping the cold steel handle, I swung the door open and stepped inside.

  A heavy black velvet curtain hang to my left, and behind it I could hear voices, laughter and music. To my right there was a coat stand and next to it, a short-haired woman as tall as a mountain giving me an impatient look. She wore suspenders over her man’s shirt and looked as though she could tackle a football player with her little finger. “ID,” she snapped.

  “Oh, um, just a second,” I said, digging through my clutch bag for an old library card, one of Debbie’s that she’d parted with as a birthday present to me. What are you ever gonna do without me, she’d said. How right she was.

  “Debbie Thomas?” she asked, looking me up and down. “You’re eighteen? Have any photo identification?”

  “Good gosh, I don’t think so,” I grimaced. “I was in such a rush and…”

  “Right, whatever,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. “Seeing as how I’m in a generous mood I’ll let you in for tonight, but do make an effort to come up with something better next time.” As she passed me back the card, a curly-haired blonde sitting on a chair behind her giggled. She looked just like a platinum-blonde version of Minnie Mouse. “Kids,” she chirped.

  Parting the curtain, I stepped inside a dimly-lit large room. Round mahogany tables surrounded a glossy dance floor, and couples sat at those tables. Little tea-lights glittered from within glass candle-holders placed decoratively around the room. Framed black and white prints of Marlene Dietrich in her tux, smoking a tapered cigarette, and a scantily-clad Josephine Baker giving a smoldering look over her shoulder hung from the darkly-wallpapered walls.

  I had to look twice to make sure that I was indeed inside a women’s bar. So many of the patrons wore tuxedos and black suits and had their hair shorn like men. They wore men’s pants and heavy shoes, men’s jackets, pinstripe waistcoats and pocket kerchiefs; even black leather jackets were in abundance tonight. Whether dancing with their dames, blowing smoke rings into the air, or talking with another masculine woman, they looked ferocious in their defiance of the status quo. I could not imagine these women wearing a skirt or working a day job as a secretary. Actually, I couldn’t see them live any other way but this – as men.

  The masculine women had their hair gelled back, slick and cut short. Some of the ones who were playing cards and smoking had the sleeves of their shirts rolled up to their elbows. On their brawny arms sat women who were the picture of femininity – women with elaborately-curled hair, long gloves or long red fingernails, wearing party gowns and flower corsages.

  Next to those women I looked like a child, like plain Alice in Wonderland at the Queen of Hearts’ royal court. Not knowing what to do with myself, I stood in the entranceway a long time, afraid to move, until someone bumped me from behind.

  “Oh, sorry,” I jumped, realizing that I was blocking the entrance. I scanned the room for a place where I could safely park myself and spotted the bar area with several empty stools.

  I gingerly walked over, my face burning from the stares I started to receive. It was plenty obvious that many of the women there tonight knew each other and had been coming here a long time, and here I was, a new face that invited attention and curiosity. I noticed a couple of manly types leaning their heads together and whispering. Turning my back to the room, I leaned on the bar to catch my breath.

  “What’ll it be, kid?” asked the bartender, another he-she openly scrutinizing my expression.

  “A…a coke,” I gasped and shut my eyes tight, reopening them to a look of sympathy.

  “First time here, huh?” she asked, siphoning out the drink. I nodded as she handed it to me on a fresh napkin.

  “It gets better,” she offered. “Breathe.”

  Anxiety was choking the wind out of me. I panicked and tugged at my collar. She was right; I could hardly breathe.

  “Here, sit,” a voice next to me called out and I felt myself being plunked onto a bar stool. Feeling faint, I picked up the coke and pressed the cold glass against my face. The icy burning sensation gave me a jolt. I swallowed and looked up again.

  “Thought you were gonna pass out,” the voice next to me said again.

  Turning my head, I discovered it belonged to a buxom Negro woman in her thirties wearing a polka-dot blouse and a red flower in her hair. She grinned at me from ear to ear and I couldn’t help but muster an appreciative smile in return.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.
/>   Her mischievous gaze made me instantly at ease. “Uh-huh,” I nodded, taking a big sip through the straw.

  “Why, you can’t be any older than sixteen!” she exclaimed. “Who let you in here?”

  Seeing my panicked face, she laughed. “Oh, silly girl, don’t worry, I won’t turn you in. We get underage ones in here all the time, don’t we, Frank?” she called to the bartender.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that, Angie,” Frank shot back, stacking up glasses behind the counter.

  “Where are all the youngsters supposed to go then? At least here they’re among their own.” Angie beamed at me. “So where you from, girl?”

  “Boston,” I replied.

  “Long way from here…”

  “Oh, I thought you meant – I mean, I’m originally from Boston,” I corrected myself. “Now I live in Panorama City.”

  “And never been to a bulldagger bar before, have ya?”

  “Nope,” I said, swallowing.

  “Ah, you’ll get used to it. I remember walking into my first gay bar when I was twenty and thinking I’d just about stepped into a whole other world,” Angie said, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Whew, took one look around and there’s no hope for me now!”

  She tapped my arm with her elbow conspiratorially. “You see, this is a jungle just like the one out there – only here instead of fellas, we have your typical butch like that one over there. A butch is the one in the relationship who wears the pants, opens doors and buys you a drink, ain’t that right, Frank?” she laughed as Frank winked at her.