by Nicole Conn
“You walk to the woman’s room. She follows you. You watch...carefully...avoiding those very same eyes. After all.” She glanced at Claire. “You might have been mistaken. Then you see her mouth in the mirror. A hint of a smile dips the corner of her mouth, ever so slightly...taunting, teasing. An invitation...so faint, so soft, you’re not sure you’ve heard it. She follows you into the stall.
“She kisses you, first gently...an introduction... then so thoroughly it’s like a right...she deftly removes the cumbersome attire, enough so she may indulge in her own fantasy and then her hand slides between your legs...” Noel’s voice drifted off.
They were both silent for a long time until Claire inhaled from her cigarette.
“Well...” Claire exhaled with emphasis. “We have one thing in common.”
Noel’s eyes met hers.
“Anonymity.”
****
A man’s strong veined hand covers a woman’s cupping a bulging crotch. Caressing it. Claire touches the hardened jeans and is confused as it melts into the softened heat of a woman’s pelvis. It is Noel, surprised to find herself in a dark murky bar, wispy smoke swirling about her. Claire’s eyes meet hers, seemingly from nowhere. She takes Noel’s hand, and leads her off into the dark, until they approach a bathroom stall. Two women aggressively maul one another. Disjointed. There are no faces. Eyes. “Always the eyes.” Noel’s. Then Claire’s. Then Noel holding Claire’s face in hers, kissing her gently, as in introduction.
****
The next morning they were both a bit hungover. The clear and graphic images of shared fantasies and the vague half-remembered disjointed dreams, of which only the feelings remained, made them both tense, edgy. Claire brewed coffee and then took her mug, sat on the ledge of the window seat, and stared vacantly out to the ocean.
Noel came up behind her. Claire was aware of her nearness. When Noel bent over her, she was taken aback until she spotted the bottle of proffered aspirin. Claire took it, removed a couple, handed it back to Noel. Noel started to move from the room, then stopped.
“Are you going to Maggie’s potluck?”
“No.” Claire’s voice was terse. She softened it to explain, “Friday night. Don’t want to miss any excitement at the Humpwhale Inn.”
“No. That would be such a tragedy.” Noel clamped her jaws thoughtfully, then left the room.
Claire sat, motionless. Goddamn it. It was Friday night and she was going to enjoy herself.
****
Noel walked into Maggie’s cabin. Pandemonium had broken loose. Lynn was sobbing, falling apart. Tara, Adrienne and Shilo all rallied around her.
“Her husband,” Adrienne explained to Noel, “left her.”
“Jesus Christ!” Noel bent to Lynn whose pain was utterly on her sleeve.
“Seems taking care of the kids for the past few weeks has made him realize he feels suffocated.”
“It’s OK, darlin’.” Tara leaned close to Noel, cupped Lynn under the cheek. “You’ll be just fine. I know it feels like ya just got kicked in the stomach, but believe me, you do get over them.”
Lynn continued to sob. Nothing seemed to help. Maggie approached with a shot of bourbon.
BJ glared at her. “That’s hardly going to help.” But Maggie ignored her, propping the shot glass inches from Lynn’s nose.
“Go ahead honey.” Tara nudged her. “It’ll do ya good.”
Lynn took the shot, gingerly sipping, then gulping the remainder down.
“Much bettah.” Tara patted Lynn’s knee protectively. “Now there, you just let whatever’s pokin’ at your ribcage come out. Better to feel the pain than to keep it all bottled up.” Tara extended her coffee cup to Maggie. Maggie smiled and poured a shot.
“Can...can I have some more?” Lynn blubbered.
As Maggie obliged, Noel caught the unmistakable spark between Tara and Adrienne as they smiled at each other in mutual understanding.
“Maybe we should call this off.” BJ watched Maggie warily as she gulped down a shot herself.
“NO!” Lynn shrieked. They all stared at her. “I...I couldn’t bear...” She looked humiliated. “Being alone,” she finished.
Several drinks later an exhilarated tension infused Maggie’s living room as the women partied with abandon. The music spun about them, cajoling, heightening, intensifying, building to an electric peak. The more the energy rose, the more intoxicated they became, even Noel, who was just as high but more reserved about expressing it.
“Men are shit!” Lynn proclaimed as she downed another shot like an old pro.
“Not all men.” Shilo protectively removed the shot glass from Lynn’s hand.
“Aren’t they?” Tara jumped in.
Maggie exchanged looks with BJ and Noel. A new Tara was emerging before their eyes. A Tara who had very little to do with the overblown belle of the ball.
“Things are rough right now,” Shilo continued soothingly, “but there are many ways to heal. Prayer...crystals. I could recalibrate your heart chakra—”
“Sounds like realignment,” Maggie mocked.
“It is in a way,” Shilo continued unperturbed, “but it will start the process sooner. Rebirthing might be a good idea too. Then the next time around—”
“There will be no next time around,” Lynn declared.
“Sure there will.” Adrienne took Lynn’s hand, but she addressed Tara more than anyone else. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
“Go on honey, it’ll do ya good.” Tara practically pushed Lynn out of her chair, then watched Adrienne’s tall figure appreciatively and with a long sigh. “Why is it that men, who have all the power, are so goddamn yellow-bellied, and women, who have none, are so brave?” she pondered.
Maggie, BJ and Noel watched this transfiguration of Tara with interest. “I thought you were the champion of male sensitivity,” Maggie provoked.
“That’s only ’cuz I want them to be that way. Not ’cuz they are!”
“That may be the goddamn smartest observation you have made yet,” Maggie snorted.
Tara dismissed Maggie’s comment and, looking directly at Noel as she lowered her girth to her knees, leaned against the table with all their drinks on it. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe our language barrier will always keep us adrift, or the fact men always have to up and do somethin’ that’ll make ya madder than cuss.” Tara sighed. “But what if we’re not like...you?” Tara encompassed Maggie and Noel as she tiredly pulled her Tammy Faye lashes from her eyes and plopped them into her watered-down drink. “What in the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Some of my best friends are men...” This floated from seemingly nowhere as Shilo lit a joint. The sincere cliché dissipated the heaviness and they all fell into fits of uncontrolled laughter.
The music got rowdier with each passing hour. No one seemed to get tired as the evening faded deep into the night. A sensual beat began; a rock and roll seduction.
I knew you well from the moment I saw you there
Wearing your clothes like a locked up cage
What can you see from your throne in the corner
Can you feel this place...
****
Claire sipped her awful martini. They couldn’t make anything right in this damn bar. What did she expect from a bartender who looked like he just finished milking the cows. Shit. What was that inane saying—“Wherever you go, well there you are.” Claire was never more sick of “there” than she was right now. She was about to order another martini, thought better of it. Brian was supposed to meet her after his dinner meeting. She had waited long enough. She picked up her keys and left.
****
Maggie swung her hips about to the music with great exaggeration.
“Come on Noel, let’s dance,” Maggie crooned.
“I don’t think so.”
“Aw come on, strip off that cool professional reserve and get funky, girl.” Maggie buffooned.
“No.”
“Go on Noel,” BJ insisted. “D
ance with Maggie or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Claire appeared from nowhere. Maggie almost choked on her bourbon as she saw the clear intent in Claire’s eyes as she walked to Noel, slowly and deliberately, eyes painted on her. “Excuse me.”
But before any of them could say another word Claire grabbed Noel’s hand and led her to the floor. Maggie chuckled deliciously. She watched Claire lead with the sensual movement of a woman comfortable with her body and the evocation of dance. Noel danced as if by command. Their eyes were married to each other as the words of the song wove between them.
What do you think I came here for—
Use your head
We’re not the same but we could be more
A whole lot more
What could it hurt, to move a little closer
How much pain could one dance be
Could it hurt to be adored for a minute
How could it hurt to be loved by a woman like me
Claire’s sensual flamboyancy was a perfect contrast to Noel’s economy of movement. They appeared to have danced forever together, their bodies linked in a gridlock of primal melding. The heat between them was electric, and they both let themselves play with it. After all, they were only dancing.
Noel reached out and touched Claire’s hair as it grazed her face. Their bodies parted and then like magnets, returned, compelled to each other. The slide of the electric guitar prodded Claire to playfully straddle Noel’s leg, in time to the music, shimmying down as she teased Noel with her eyes. Noel responded by clasping Claire firmly about the waist with both hands, commanding the full length of Claire’s body to move with her own, their eyes locked together. Noel could feel Claire’s breasts brush up against her, her breath, exerted from dance and excitement, burned into her skin. At the last refrain, Claire mouthed the words to the music, then masked her intention after each word was spoken; a push-pull, teasing. The music was over but Claire and Noel were caught in the web of seduction.
“GODDAMN YOU FUCKIN’ SON OF A BITCH!!!”
Lynn screamed in agony as her body pressed against the wall, then fell to a muddled heap as she sobbed hysterically, her life shattered.
****
Noel passed Claire abruptly as they entered the cabin, both of them still quite inebriated. She moved to the window, peering out at the black, angry with herself. How had she ever let things get this out of control? Claire’s assumption that she could waltz in from the Humpwhale Inn, simply because she couldn’t find what she wanted that particular evening, and seek her out at Maggie’s, so calmly, so in command, infuriated her. She knew she should simply walk away from this, go to bed, but she couldn’t.
“Strike out?”
“Not exactly.” Claire was amused. “But you know reality. Such a poor substitution.”
“Well, did you get what you were looking for?” Claire slowly walked to Noel, stared at her profile. “No. I didn’t.”
Noel continued to stare out into the void, then almost under her breath, “Do you even know what you want?”
Claire moved closer. “Maybe you can help me figure it out...Doc.”
Noel laughed. “I never tinker with straight women.”
“No?” Claire taunted. “Why is that?”
“They take too many straight privileges.”
Claire maneuvered herself around Noel so that they faced each other. She put a hand out, coyly touched the hem of Noel’s jacket. “But what if they’re simply following their destiny?”
“Destiny? I think you’re confusing that with fleeting interest.” Noel stared implacably at the unseen waves, unwilling to meet Claire’s eyes.
“What about your...oh what was that exotic supposition?” Claire continued her slow circular motion as she moved from one side of Noel to the other, “Ah yes...the Vampire theory, from your book.”
“It’s not my theory. It’s an allegory, if anything.”
“Whatever. It does have merit.”
“For whom?”
“Oh, I think converting someone can be the height of seduction. You pierce the skin, suck the passion from them, leave them wanting...” Claire whispered, “...forever.”
“Until things get uncomfortable.” Noel removed herself several feet from Claire. The memory of her skin, the smell of her hair, were too close. “The husband finds out, say.” She did not look at her. “Opening doors can be very exciting, but Auntie Mame I am not.” Noel’s words were calculated to pierce Claire’s demeanor. “And I never get involved with women who straddle both sides of the fence.”
Claire grinned derisively. “Sounds like you never get involved at all.”
“If you mean fucking for a quick thrill, the myth’s been destroyed.”
Claire lost her flippancy. “You think if you just talk about it enough it’ll happen, don’t you, Noel?” She cut the distance between them as she continued, “If you just wind your little hypotheses and theorems tight enough—distill them to the final intellectual analysis—it’ll BOOM!—just happen. Like spontaneous combustion.” Claire pressed right up in front of Noel, who turned away from her.
“But you need heat for that Noel. Heat.” She moved in closer until Noel felt the full pressure of her body. “You can’t even look me in the eye. Can you?” The breath of her words slivered against the hairs of Noel’s neck. “You’re afraid of me.”
Noel held her shoulders tight, and then said with clear warning in her voice, “Claire.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Claire turned and left the room.
****
Noel had wandered to her darkly imbedded forest with journal in tow. She found herself there whenever she and Claire got to this point. Except the points kept moving insidiously closer together. She opened the pages, sighed, apathetic and discouraged.
She’s not ready for this. I’m not ready for this.
Claire’s not ready for anything that remotely
smacks of responsibility. She wants to play.
That’s what it is, Noel thought, chewing on her pen. She wants to test the water until the waves get too rough.
Her arrogance makes her certain she won’t be
pulled in by the undertow. But she’s never
played this game.
It might be tolerable if she weren’t so damn
incessant and so...so there. That night. The
way Claire moved with me. Danced with me.
Damn her.
Noel shut the journal in disgust. Well, Claire was a survivor if nothing else. The very art of her survival, the edge of wild inhibition, her irritating chaos, was what made her so fascinating, and the brittle fragility that seemed to envelop Claire when Noel least expected it, pulled things from Noel she didn’t even know were there. That was difficult in itself.
She had no frame of reference for this dance. With Erika the feelings were out on the table, hidden secrets notwithstanding. Here black and white was ambiguous and grey—hell, it barely stood a chance.
She let out a long and enduring sigh. No frame of reference, whatsoever.
****
Claire ran until she doubled over coughing. Quit smoking. Quit drinking. Quit all this bullshit. She wanted to leave. There weren’t many days left anyway. Why didn’t she just go—or, maybe stay with Brian.
Brian. Had she really stopped to consider the options? He was interesting, concerned, intriguing, thought-provoking, sensitive, darkly handsome, and a very good lover. A great lover, actually. If there were ever a time when getting serious should be considered, here it was.
So where was the magic? This illusive romantic ideal. Was it simply a matter of chemistry? She had found him attractive...had wanted to go to bed with him...as she did the others. And then the square-jawed warning from Noel, deep and husky, swept over her from the night before: “Claire.” She gritted her teeth, started running again.
She headed towards the rock. She now thought of it as The Rock because it so clearly owned this strip of beach. She approached it bre
athless, then clambered up the side and sat at the top overlooking the familiar and vast expanse of the bluish tide. How many times could she ponder this same view and never tire of it?
Her breathing slowed, and she slumped back. She stripped off her sweatshirt and let the sun wash over her bare skin. It felt healing, penetrating. She drifted in and out of hazy daydreams for some time then was awakened by a noise below. When she leaned over the rock she saw the top of Noel’s head, as she meandered through the path.
“You seem inordinately fond of this rock,” Claire said.
Noel spun around, taken by surprise. She finally got her bearings and spotted Claire hunched over the top of the crag. Noel peered up, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“I love its strength,” Noel said. “Its solidness.”
“Yet it’s split in two.”
“Sometimes...” Noel was not unfriendly, nor her tone harsh. “That’s where strength begins.”
They both let the words sink in, then Noel simply walked away. Claire gazed at the waves for a very long time.
****
She contemplated the ceiling, rotely smoking a cigarette. Then, restless, she put it out. Tossed. Turned. Nothing. It was mid-afternoon, and she could not work. She was sick of the ocean, the eternal rhythm of beauty, the endless aesthetic of seascape. She wanted darkness. Oblivion. She turned and studied the wall for a long moment, seemingly spellbound by the orange peel texture.
