by Nicole Conn
“Isn’t that the first rule?”
“I think...” Noel paused and then walked forward. “I think my bedside manner leaves a little to be desired.”
“Yes.” Claire followed softly, “Mine as well.”
****
The sun was lowering against the ocean in the late afternoon, painting the western sky with darkening blues, indigos and a brilliant crimson peach that lined the horizon.
“So...tell me about this pornography thing.”
“It’s an extension of a theory, actually.”
“About—” Claire prodded.
“Our culture’s struggle with intimacy. I mean we’ve so successfully sanitized sex—”
“Watch the alliteration.”
“— there’s nothing left to eroticize. The only time we can achieve a more potent sense of excitement is through taboo.”
“Pornography being one act over the line from erotica.”
“Close.”
“And what’s erotica?” Claire teased.
“You tell me.”
“Well, you’re the expert on this stuff.” Claire pushed Noel playfully towards the water. “Aren’t you, Doc?”
****
“What’s one woman’s poison?” Noel’s fine-boned fingers played with the salt shaker in a small cafe. “Beauty is, after all, in the eyes of the beholder.”
“Like The Enchanted Cottage.”
“Yes. Great film.” Noel entertained a deep interest in the salt shaker as she spoke. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything capture the concept better.”
“Yes and in glorious black and white. Although you do have to give some credit to a film like Edward Scissorhands. It was after all saying the same thing.”
“Give me an old black and white with a happy ending any day.”
“Ahh...” Claire maneuvered the salt shaker from Noel’s hand. Noel looked up. Claire’s eyes danced lightly with hers. “A romantic.”
“I find it remarkable—determining what moves someone.” Noel recaptured the salt shaker to return to the safer side of the conversation.
“What moves you?”
The soft entreaty in Claire’s voice threw Noel off track. Up until this point she had been fine with Claire’s questions, but this was too private. To compose herself she assumed the role of Dr. Benedict, choosing her words cautiously. “Eroticism is a completely personal...individual...matter. Cultures, subcultures, are so uncomfortable with primal desires that we’ve gone to inordinate lengths to obliterate them. And, the medical community attempts to label everything, with this absurd Dewey Decimal System of never-ending and overlapping psychiatric diagnosis—”
“God, I thought that would appeal to your sense of order.”
“You think I’m—”
“— anal,” Claire finished for her. Noel laughed. “Do you enjoy it?”
Noel wasn’t at all sure what she was referring to. “Enjoy what?”
“Your work.”
“Mostly.” Noel cast about for explanation. “Sometimes I think it’s a fantasy gone awry.”
“But if—”
“— It’s what this romantic does.” A waitress arrived with their cappuccinos. “And you. You’re a sarcastic contemporist.”
“Is that a diagnosis?”
“No, it came from the jacket of your book, quote, view of the nineties—raw, real, racy.”
“Then you’ve read it.” There was a hesitation in Claire’s voice.
“The jacket cover.”
Claire was relieved. Somewhat.
“It claims you demystify the power struggle between the sexes while poking fun at the absurdity of the modern relationship.”
“Yeah, well, it’s like I said...” Claire returned to her sardonic tone.
“Yes, I know. You simply butt-fuck men right and left.”
“That has nothing to do with my books.” Claire burned her tongue as she sipped her cappuccino.
“A personal vendetta maybe.” Noel’s sense of professional detachment was lost and she couldn’t stop herself.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Come on, Claire. You can dish it out—”
“Listen, Doc. Don’t treat me like one of your patients.”
Noel glanced at her hands, wondering why this woman had such effortless ability to pry beneath her skin. She begged for her containment to return, but as she caught the spark in Claire’s fiery eyes and felt the tension flare between her shoulder blades, she knew that was no longer a possibility.
“Then don’t act like one,” Noel responded as calmly as possible. She got up and walked out the door.
For the next two days Claire left as soon as she woke, and did not return until long after Noel was asleep, if at all. Noel wondered what was the point of Claire’s being at this beautiful retreat when she spent half her time escaping it.
She stared at the work before her. Useless. She could rationalize a break. She had been at it since five, even though her productivity was dubious at best. Whatever this grey depression she was suffering was all about, and whether she could label it and organize it in her thoughts, made very little difference to her. She wanted it to go away. An instant twelve-step program. Just add water and stir. Or, better yet, shrink it down to two steps. Get over it. Stay over it.
She deserted her work and meandered out onto the deck. She could always lose herself in the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. She kept attempting to count the seventh wave crest, but kept losing track before she got there. And then a strange and haunting melody fell on her ears. It came from the old upright at Maggie’s cabin. Which didn’t make sense. Maggie only played after several bourbons and then only rowdy ragtime blues. She followed the music, and then knew it couldn’t be Maggie. The touch was too accomplished, the feeling too sensitive.
When she approached Maggie’s door, she found herself caught up in a beautiful Chopin Prelude filled with pathos. Nothing could have shocked her more than to see Claire sitting at the old burnished mahogany piano, deep in concentration.
Noel watched Claire’s slender fingers glide over the keys, further exposing this unsuspected side of a woman whose facade shunned sensitivity like the plague. She watched Claire with new interest as she continued to play.
Claire stopped mid-piece, played melody with her right hand. Then, suddenly, her back arched. She swung around to catch the intrigued expression on Noel’s face.
“Absolutely...” Noel did not want her words to sound cliched. “Alive.”
Claire turned back to the piano, shut the case. She looked very soft in faded blue jeans, knit cotton beach sweater, hair loosely pulled back.
“Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m...finished.”
“I had no idea—”
“I had a sensitive side?” Claire chided, “Don’t let it throw you.”
Noel wasn’t in the mood for word games. “What an extraordinary talent you have.”
“Please.”
“No. I’m serious. I adore it. Especially Chopin.”
“My favorite.” Claire’s tone was wistful, less defensive.
“So deliciously tormented.”
“Well, torture is his appeal.”
Noel lightly touched a couple of keys. “Is that a particular obsession?”
Claire glanced at her, then away. “Let’s just say, it’s had its moments.”
A gloomy silence fell as Claire’s words floated between them. Noel recognized they were both dangerously close to sinking woefully into depression.
“So...” Noel grappled for conversation.
“So.”
Noel glanced at her watch.
“You do that a lot.”
“What?”
Claire grabbed her wrist, checked Noel’s watch for her. “That.”
“It’s noon.”
“Yes. I see that.”
“Hungry?”
“Not particularly.”
“Me either.”
They grinned at the same time. The inanity of the conversation was not lost on either of them. “Want to take a drive?” Claire asked.
“Sure.”
****
Claire whipped around a curve at breakneck pace. “Too fast?”
“No.”
Claire quickly glanced in Noel’s direction. Her profile was implacable as usual. She had an urge to scare emotion on to it.
She pressed into the accelerator and rounded another bend with skill. But Noel’s expression did not change. Did this woman feel? Did she anger? Did she lust? Was the containment merely a well-worn facade for a tempestuous inner nature?
Claire wanted to know how anyone could control that side. The dark. The side that was equal parts compulsion and fire. Her own success had been minimal at best. She found herself gravitating towards this woman, so like an anchor, firmly rooted on the planet, while she herself spent most of the time being a kite swept out of the hands of its owner. Claire sped up the hill through a tunnel. When they drove out the other side Noel grinned and turned to her.
“Now I’m hungry.”
****
Noel took a gingerly sip of foam off the top of her beer. Claire grinned as she observed Noel, clearly the most out-of-place character in the seedy Humpwhale Inn. A country song wailed from a distant jukebox. Noel’s jaw tightened; distaste mingled with condescending amusement.
“She done you wroooo-ooong.” Claire laughed as she intoned with twangy melodrama.
“Excuse me?”
“Tore out your heart, shredded it to pieces with her unfeeling faaaa-aaangs...” Claire continued the mock country song, “drop-kicked it into the nearest dump bin, with the rest of the broken he—a-arts.”
“How descriptive. You must be a writer.” Noel smiled sardonically. “Yes...I can see it in your eyes. Wild imagination. Stormy soliloquies.”
Claire smiled in return. She felt very little pain as she took another sip of tequila followed by a beer chaser. “And your eyes, paint a barren landscape, darlin’—sagebrush twirlin ‘round your heart.”
A shadow of intense pain crossed Noel’s eyes.
“Sorry.” Claire said quickly. “Sappy music has that effect on me. But you know, Doc, whatever she did—fuck her.”
Noel stared into her beer. “Is that your answer for everything?”
“All I’m saying is no one’s worth losing your joie de vivre over, Noel.” Claire wanted somehow to help her. But as she smiled engagingly at her, Noel seemed to become more uncomfortable.
“So this is where you hang?”
“I never hang.”
“No. I rather suppose you don’t.” Noel took a quick sip of her beer. “What do you do?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s any big mystery, Doc. Probably the same thing you do.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“Different tools. Same game.” They were sparring again.
“It isn’t.” Noel was direct.
“Isn’t it?”
“The attraction between men and women is clear—straightforward, so to speak.”
“And between women and women?” Claire teased.
“It can weave...” Noel responded carefully, “dangerously...simply forever.”
Claire felt the heat of Noel’s pointed directness as the words slid between them.
“Hey ladies!” The spell was broken as Tara, Lynn and Adrienne bustled up to the booth in high spirits. “Mind if we join ya?” Tara didn’t wait for an answer as she directed Lynn, who appeared kidnapped, “Come on honey, you just scooch right on in.”
Claire looked at Noel. They were unwitting victims. Sending them away was out of the question.
“Looks like we all had the same idea,” Adrienne teased.
“Hell yes!” Tara prattled excitedly, “What’s the harm in a little bustin’ loose, I always say.”
“Is that what you always say?” Claire asked, uninterested.
Tara looked at the empty beer bottles on the table. “Yes. That’s what I always say. ’Sides...I wanted to see for myself what kind of trouble Maggie was referrin’ to.” She swiveled to Lynn. “Come on darlin’ it ain’t the end of the world. You’ll get your story done. You’ve been too cooped up anyway. How ’bout a nice refreshin’ spritzer.”
Lynn looked uncertainly at Noel, as if she might have the answer. Noel smiled at her, kindly. Lynn buckled. “Well...yes, I guess that would be nice.”
****
Several rounds later a live band began playing raucous country rock. Things were gearing up for a wild Saturday night. Claire studied the faces at the table: Lynn, tipsy-toodle and wide-eyed, Adrienne carrying a sophisticated buzz-on, Tara blushing prettily as her delivery became even more accentuated. And Noel, who seemed to withdraw in direct proportion to the increasingly animated din.
Tara screamed over the racket, “Crotch bulge!”
Lynn continued to gawk.
“Well,” Tara explained, “we have to have some sort of system to size them up accordin’ to our preferences.”
“Ab-so-lutely.” Adrienne raised her glass of wine. “So tell us about your system, Tara.”
“It’s not foolproof, of course.”
“Nothing is,” Claire concurred.
A hefty logger passed by. “Take Mr. Lumberjack, for instance.”
They all appraised the tall hunky specimen. “Out of ten?” Adrienne pondered.
“Inches?” Lynn gasped.
“No.” Tara dutifully explained as if to a child, “It’s just a scale. One to ten. Ten, of course, bein’ the largest.”
“Seven,” Adrienne judged.
“Seven?” Tara implored. “I’d say at least a nine.”
“I guess that depends on what you’re used to,” Claire cut in, and then felt Noel’s eyes on her. She wished she had kept it to herself. She didn’t need to compete with these women.
“How ’bout an even eight,” Tara compromised. “’Course if they’re crooked I detract a point.”
“And you can’t always tell,” Adrienne commiserated.
“That’s right darlin’. It can be terribly disappointin’. Why several months ago I went out with what I was sure to be an eight, maybe a nine, but he was this short of a five.” Tara indicated her disillusionment by pinching her forefinger and thumb together, which sent them all into paroxysms of laughter.
Tara could barely contain herself. Then she sobered up, addressing Noel. Claire was keenly aware Noel did not share their enthusiasm for this conversation. “Why darlin’ you look a tad blanched. All this girl talk make you uncomfortable?”
“Why should it? I am a girl.”
Claire smiled at Noel’s response and held Noel’s eyes, sending her encouragement. She was startled when a figure suddenly towered over their table. Brian’s eyes glimmered seductively as he moved forward and touched her shoulder. Claire was confused. She didn’t want him there.
She introduced him at large. “Everyone...this is, uh, Brian Marquist, another itinerant beachcomber from the Big Apple.”
“Ladies.” Brian was nothing less than gracious and charming.
Claire watched as Noel took in his dark good looks and smooth manners and how Noel’s eyes left hers when he leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.
“Well do sit down, New York.” Tara and her damn southern hospitality. Brian sat.
An awkward silence spread over the table. The exclusive girls club had been joined by a foreign species toppling the balance, changing the tone from easy familiarity to competitive discomfort. Claire had seen it happen a million times from the moment she could walk onto a playground to the subtle and not so subtle sexual politics that invaded every meeting, social or otherwise, which involved both male and female participants.
“See Adrienne, there’s more culture here than you thought,” Tara ribbed her.
“Apparently. Adrienne—” She extended her hand to Brian. “I’m from the Village myself, and don’t mind saying, enormously homesick.”
&
nbsp; Brian smiled shyly. Tara nudged Lynn as she simply stared at him. “What ya’ll doin’ in this neck of the woods?”
“Taking care of some business—”
“— Brian is an ethical real estate broker. Tying up a non-profit land deal.” Claire felt foolish as she attempted to defend his presence.
“How about a round here?” Seemingly embarrassed at the attention, Brian flagged a passing waitress.
“Southern...” Tara winked at him. “...Comfort.”
Claire became distinctly aware of Noel’s disgust at this display. She tried to save the situation. “Brian, this is Dr. Noel Benedict.”
“Oh. The roommate.” Claire caught Noel’s glance. Brian tried to save it. “You...uh, write, as well as practice medicine.”
“Why, Dahk-tah Benedict writes all about the medicine she practices.”
Claire slumped in her seat, realizing the situation was well beyond remedy. Her voice became flat with defeat. “Noel’s a psychiatrist.”
“Well.” Noel put her beer down with finality. “It was nice meeting you, but I need to get back to work.”
“Don’t let me interrupt. I just stopped to say hi.” Brian made no move to leave.
“I have to go.” Noel slid from the booth, but did not acknowledge Claire with so much as a glance as she said, “I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a way back.”
Claire watched Noel’s retreating figure. “Yeah. No problem.”
“You hate men.”
It was the next morning. Claire had walked out onto the deck with a cup of coffee and, of course, a cigarette.
Noel was deeply immersed in reading a book, and did not particularly want to engage in this conversation. She answered without looking up. “Not in the least.”
“But you couldn’t wait to get out of his presence.”
“I just didn’t see any point in staying.”
Silence. Claire pondered the ocean as she took a rather exaggerated drag from her cigarette. Noel hoped if she pretended to read perhaps Claire would tire of the subject and leave.
