by Lori L. Lake
Confident her range was about right, Paulette said loudly, “Hey Dad!”
As he glanced over his shoulder, she brought the club down hard, landing a chopping blow to his temple. He did not fall as she had expected, but staggered toward her. This time she swung in a wide arc, smashing him across the face. It made a dull, wet crunching sound, like biting down on a mouthful of freshly shelled peas.
He landed hard on his knees, groaning, clutching his head. “No. Stop. Please,” he begged, sniveling and trying to crawl to the door.
It was funny, Paulette thought, that’s exactly what she used to say. She answered, just as he had, “Shut up,” and struck him again.
Danny Turner sagged to the floor, his arms flopped out on either side. He still seemed to be talking. It came out like a baby’s gurgle. She walloped him around the head a few more times, until he was completely silent. Light suddenly drenched the room. Squinting, Paulette thought it must be the light of our Lord Jesus or an angel come to take her father up to heaven. But that seemed an unlikely destination, so it came as no surprise to see her mother in the doorway, holding a newly finished yellow dress.
Joan said nothing at first. Her eyes widened and she made a strange little sound like a hiccup. Then with her foot, she gave the inert body a prod. “Go downstairs and get a couple of those big trash bags,” she instructed. “Don’t wake your brother.”
When Paulette returned, the yellow dress was wrapped around her father’s head like something an Arab might wear. Her mother pulled one of the trash bags down over this and said, “I’m calling your aunt.”
Aunt Julie had moved north to live closer to them after she divorced her no good husband a year ago. When she arrived ten minutes later and saw Danny’s bare legs sticking out from under the plastic, Aunt Julie declared, “About time!” She took one of her heart pills, then said, “I think we better get his pants back on him, the filthy pig.”
The two women dressed his bottom half and put on his shoes. Paulette’s mom lay the golf club on top of him.
“Take a leg each, you two,” Aunt Julie said, flicking off the bedroom light and lifting him under the armpits.
As noiselessly as possible, they carried the body down the stairs and out the back door into the garage where Aunt Julie’s pickup was parked. They loaded the body on board, then Paulette’s mom went into the house for his golf clubs. She shoved the bloody 7 iron in with the set and tossed them onto the pick-up.
“Go back upstairs and wait in the sewing room, dear.” She handed Paulette a key. “Keep the lights on, and sit at the machine. There’s some yellow fabric left over from your new dress. Just keep sewing over it ’til I get home. That way no one will know I’ve gone out.”
THE NEXT MORNING, in the middle of breakfast, the police came. Joan showed them into the living room. They took off their hats and asked her to sit down.
“That some ’gator,” the younger of the two officers observed, gazing up at Solomon.
Joan had set him back in his usual place that morning, and she’d removed the sunglasses. He looked more dignified without them.
“New paint?” the older officer said.
“Mom did it yesterday.” Frank sidled around the door. “So we’d get a surprise when we came home from school.” Ogling their uniforms, he continued, “Wow, are you real cops?”
“Frank. Hush,” Joan said, then explained to the two officers, “He wants to be a police officer one day. It’s his dream.”
“Well, son, maybe when we’re done talking with your mom, you can come out and take a look at our patrol car.”
Frank went brick red with excitement. “Yes, please, sir.”
“Run along now.” Joan closed the door and turned to the officers, gratified her redecoration had made a favorable impression. “Is it my husband? Is he in trouble again?”
The older of the two cleared his throat. “Ma’am, when did you last see your husband?”
“At dinner time last night. He had a friend over to play cards. Then later on he went out.”
“Any idea where he was going?”
Joan shrugged. “I gave up asking ten years ago. What’s this about? If I need to bail him out again—”
“Ma’am. I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your husband was found dead on Emerald Vale golf course this morning.”
“What? I don’t understand—”
“It appears he was murdered with one of his own golf clubs.”
“Murdered?” Joan raised a shaky hand to her face.
“I’m afraid we need you to come downtown with us to identify the body.”
Numbly Joan stood. The younger officer placed a gentle hand against her back and opened the door for her. Joan liked that. It was a long time since anyone had treated her like a lady.
“I’ll get my coat,” she said. “If you don’t mind waiting.”
PAULETTE WAS SITTING on her bed when her mom came into the room.
“I have to go down to the Police Station,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Your father was found dead at Emerald Vale this morning, and I need to identify the body.”
“What’s going to happen?” Paulette whispered.
“You’re going to stay home from school today because I just told you the terrible news. Then we’ll bury your father.”
“And that’s it?”
Her mom looked around room. They had cleaned the walls after she got back the night before, and the rug Danny Turner had bled on was now in the basement, waiting for the next garbage collection.
“I’m thinking I’ll paint this tomorrow,” she told Paulette. “While I’m at the morgue, you can decide what color you’d like.”
***
ABOUT GABRIELLE GOLDSBY
Gabrielle Goldsby is the author of six novels including ForeWord Magazine finalist, Remember Tomorrow, the Lambda Literary Award-winning Wall of Silence, and The Caretaker’s Daughter, recipient of the Alice B. Lavender Certificate. A Northern California transplant, Gabrielle currently resides in Portland, Oregon. When not writing, she enjoys reading, camping, hiking, and lifting the heaviest things she can get her hands on.
Long Way Home
Fiction by Gabrielle Goldsby
“IT LOOKS MORE raggedy than I remember,” I said gruffly. What I was thinking was how much I missed its raggedness. I had probably passed these houses thousands of times in my life: first peddling a pink Husky, then a mustard orange three-speed, and finally, driving a multicolored 1973 Chevy Vega. I hadn’t paid much attention to them then, but seeing them again brought to mind something else from the past: an old nightgown. It had been washed and dried so often you could almost see through the material. I have yet to feel cotton softer against my skin. The feeling of comfort that nightgown gave me was worth the teasing I suffered at the hands of my partner, Dee. I could remember feeling a sense of loss every time I slipped it, old, dingy and threadbare, over my head. One day I would no longer be able to argue against throwing it away. Oakland felt like that: old, raggedy, and threadbare. But also familiar, comforting, warm, and mine.
“Remember that old nightgown I used to love?” I asked Dee.
“Yeah, I used scraps from it in that quilt I made for you.”
“I miss that nightgown.”
Dee nodded and looked out the window. “Five years is a long time to be away from home, Genean.” She covered my hand with hers and I smiled though I didn’t look at her. She always saw too much in my eyes. She knew what I meant, even when I didn’t say it. It’s one of the reasons I love her, one of the reasons I want to spend the rest of my life with her.
“This is my mother’s home, and where I grew up. My home is with you.” I didn’t have to look to know she was wearing that crooked little smile of hers. I could feel it in the squeeze to my hand.
“I know, sweetie, but your home is also where your mother is.” I shrugged and Dee let the subject drop. “For some reason I thought your mom lived closer to the airport.”
I bit t
he inside of my lip to distract myself from the nausea that passed over me in that instant. I’d told Dee the bumpy take-off had caused the nausea, but in truth, it had started the moment we left our home in San Diego.
“We could’ve taken the freeway but…” I struggled to find an acceptable explanation. “I wanted to see...” Dee gave my hand another squeeze and I stopped trying to explain what she already knew. I had deliberately taken the long way because I was nervous. Sometimes I wish she didn’t understand me so well. I grimaced and tried to ease the button of my jeans away from my navel.
“Your stomach still bothering you?”
“No,” I lied. “I just I haven’t seen my mother in a while, and she doesn’t know….”
“She doesn’t know about me.”
“I was going to say she doesn’t know about us, Dee.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What do you think she’ll say?”
I shrugged and glanced over at her. Her expressive blue eyes were hidden behind the lenses of her sunglasses. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t even guess?” Dee chuckled, the nervousness in her voice mirroring what I was feeling.
“I know it’s hard for you to believe, growing up in a family like yours, but we just never talked about gays or lesbians at all.”
“What do you mean a family like mine?” The nervousness seemed forgotten for a moment and indignation crept in.
I laughed. “Look, I’m not cracking on your family. But I bet your mother made your breakfast and your school lunch in the morning, and was there waiting for you when you came home from school.”
“Yeah. So what? A lot of people’s mothers did that.”
“None of my friend’s mothers did, sweetheart. They didn’t have time. Most of them were going it alone like my mom. I made my own school lunch while she was getting ready for work.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and idly watched a woman, no older than my 26 years, drag three dirty-looking kids across the street. The youngest of the three was leashed and had a hood over his head in the over 70-degree weather. He grinned and pointed at our rented SUV as he said something I couldn’t hear. His mother yanked his leash, and he obediently stepped up on the curb. The light changed, and I gave the car some gas.
“Hey, is that Skyline?” Dee pointed to a monstrous building squatting behind several tall gates. I glanced at the building and back to the road, my mouth twisting lightly with distaste. This is one area that hadn’t changed. The gates appeared as impenetrable as they had when I was a kid. I slowed to a near crawl as we bumped over four speed bumps obviously placed there to keep people from speeding in front of the school. A bright yellow sign blared, “SPEED LIMIT 15MPH” as if the kids at Bishop O’Connell deserved better than the 25 miles an hour that the rest of America’s children warranted.
“No sweetie, that’s Bishop O’Connell.” I was sure I said it lightly or at least I thought I did. Ahead, the light turned red, and I stopped the car at the intersection.
I could hear the question in Dee's voice as she repeated the name. “Bishop O’Connell,” she said as if tasting it.
“Skyline is about 5 miles that way.” I pointed with my chin, unwilling to release her hand.
“Was this school expensive?”
“Mmm hmm, very. It’s one of the best schools in the Bay Area, though, so I guess it’s worth it.”
“Did you want to go here?”
I shrugged. “I wanted to go to school with my friends. None of them could afford to go there. Neither could I, come to think of it.” I babbled on to keep myself from thinking too much. “When they first put up that gate it pissed a lot of people off. They couldn’t stop the neighborhood kids from playing basketball on their court, so they put up these fences. People around here took it as an insult.”
I sunk down low in my seat and peered at the pristine white basketball nets hanging from the hoops. “I guess they were right. Look at that, bet it’s the only school in Oakland that still has basketball nets.” The light turned green, and I could feel myself growing more and more tense as we drove down Truman Street toward my mother’s home.
“I hate this,” I blurted out.
“No, you don’t. “
“Yeah, I do. I hate the way this is making me feel. Why do I need to do this? If you were a man—”
“If I were a man you would have dumped my ass four years ago. If I were a man I wouldn’t be about to meet your entire family. If I were a man I wouldn’t get to sit and hold your hand while your legs are up in those damn stirrups so that some doctor can stick a—”
“Okay, okay.” I chuckled. “I get your point. I’m just saying I hate the fact that I feel so scared.”
“Everyone is scared when they come out to their family. I thought I was going to throw up when I first told mine.”
“That was different. You were 16 years old. I’m 26. I shouldn’t feel so… well shit, I shouldn’t feel like this.”
“Sweetie, I think it’s natural to feel scared.”
I continued speaking as if I hadn’t heard her, determined to keep the silence and the fear from creeping in. “Besides, I’m not so much worried about my family. I mean if they don’t accept us, then they can kiss my ass.”
“You’re more worried about your mother.”
“Yeah, I have no idea how she’ll feel. I mean she just doesn’t… we never talked about these kinds of things.”
“I still can’t believe that.”
“No, I mean she had friends who were gay. They were mostly men, but other than that, I don’t know that it ever came up. Don’t get me wrong. I always knew that there were people in this world that had same sex relationships. But it was always twice removed, if that makes sense.”
Dee nodded, and I made the final right turn onto my mother’s street. “That’s where Cindy and Brin used to live.” I pointed at the once immaculate house. It was hard to believe that the brown, nondescript house had once been the best looking one on the block. Now it seemed to slump down in back of its two small squares of wizened grass as if to hide. “See that lattice right there?” I pointed with my pinky, but didn’t remove my hand from the steering wheel. “For some reason the previous owners decided to plant grapes that crawled up that lattice. All the neighborhood kids would try to eat them, which would result in a grape fight because they were the nastiest grapes ever. I think they were wine grapes.” I prattled on. Shriveled vines still clung to the lattice, but there was no sign of the once leafy grape vines. The thought that the kids who lived here now had one less benefit than I did made me sad.
Two houses past the old Williams house, I grinned. Now this house looked exactly like I remembered it. “Mrs. Heartwater’s,” I said.
“Where?” Dee craned her head as if to get a glimpse of the old woman who I’m sure would be in her early 80s if she were still alive. Mrs. Heartwater’s favorite pastime was to lean out of her window and flip off all of us kids with gusto.
I eased the rental up to the curb in front of my mother’s house. The lawn was a lot greener than I remembered it, and the big, green bushes skirting the porch had been professionally pruned. She had also obviously painted the porch. “The house didn’t look like this when I lived in it,” I said, dimly aware that I was annoyed because the house had not fallen into disrepair in my absence.
“This is it then?” Dee asked softly.
I nodded. “This is it.”
I was just about to suggest we leave to go have some coffee before actually ringing my mother’s doorbell when the black iron gate that had protected our front door from who-knew-what swung open. A short, brown-skinned woman stepped out onto the porch, a huge smile enveloping her face. Before I even realized it, I had opened the car door and was jogging down the driveway to envelope her in my arms. I tried to join her on the small front porch but realized that I would tower over her making our tight hug nearly impossible to maintain.
“Oh, my God. You’re so short,” I said through a sob
. Had it really only been five years? The brown hair that had been down past her shoulders was now cut stylishly short and was almost completely silver gray. The braces she’d gotten while I was in college were now gone, and the teeth gleaming back at me were perfectly straight and white.
“I missed you, baby girl,” she gushed into my ear as we held on tight. I didn’t need to turn around to know that Dee, who had made a far more graceful descent down the driveway, was now standing shyly behind me. I could almost hear pieces shifting into place. My life was finally whole.
“Hey, Momma. It’s been too long,” I said in a voice thick with tears. It had been too long; I knew that and so did she. The only problem was how to tell her why.
“Hey, Ann. She’s here,” a voice hollered. I cringed as my cousin Nora pushed through the iron gate and onto the porch. She grabbed me around the waist, wrenching me from my mother’s arms, and smothered me with two overflowing double D’s. “Ann,” Nora shouted, “get out here.”
“Umpf. Ann is here, too?” I asked just as Ann burst onto the porch and began jubilantly pounding on my back. Ann was married with three kids, and still managed to be more butch than either Dee or myself could ever be. Hell, she even co-captained a women’s softball team.
After detaching my face from one cousin’s breast, I hugged the other and began to introduce my lover of four years to my family. I felt a sudden surge of awkwardness. Do I introduce her as my roommate? My friend? My best friend? My lover? Certainly she was all those things and to just say one seemed, well, a betrayal. My mother stepped forward then and took the issue out of my hands.
“You must be Dee. I’ve talked to you so many times on the phone I feel like I already know you. Come on in here, you two. We were just about to sit down for brunch.” I watched as my mother pulled Dee into the house, my cousins following close behind.
