OtherWorld

by Sarah Dreher

  “You’re from the south?” Stape asked as the doors slipped shut.

  “Georgia. Jefferson. But I haven’t lived there in years.”

  Stape thought hard, frowning. “Jefferson.”

  “Northwest of Atlanta,” Gwen said. “It’s a tiny place. You might not have heard of it.”

  “I can’t really say I have.” Stape glanced at George, who shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “The only time it ever gets mentioned is if there’s a KKK rally there. I think the last one was at least ten years ago. There’s some kind of museum of medical technology there now, but I haven’t seen it.”

  They were passing the massive white verandas and red-shingled roofs of the Grand Floridian. Elegant, intricate. Stoner tried to imagine children running through its halls or carousing on its beach, and found it a difficult concept. She tried to imagine herself being comfortable in its Victorian formality. Impossible. Even though the guide books tried to make it sound friendly—just like the other resorts, with shops and ice cream parlors and video game rooms and snack bars. But drop her into a lobby with stained glass domes and chandeliers, and she’d be like a beached dolphin, thrashing and gasping for breath.

  Probably because it was exactly the kind of place her mother would love.

  Also because she would be aware, every minute of every hour of every day, that she was a lesbian.

  Not that she minded being a lesbian.

  What she minded were situations that grabbed you by the throat and screamed MISFIT—MISFIT—MISFIT until you wanted to crawl down a crack in the floor.

  The Grand Floridian Beach Resort looked like one of those situations.

  What some people—even well-meaning people, even some younger lesbians—didn’t understand was that being a lesbian was a full-time occupation. You got up in the morning and looked in the mirror, and the woman who looked back was a lesbian. Sometimes you looked at her and wanted to shout with joy. Sometimes you wanted to fall on your knees and thank what- ever passed for God in this Universe that you were one of the lucky ones. And sometimes you just wanted to die.

  Stoner had, at one time or another, experienced each of those scenarios.

  Ever since, with Edith Kesselbaum’s help, she had come to honor her lesbianism, she didn’t often want to die. But she could still remember when her fear and self-hatred ran so deep it was always beneath the surface, ready to be tapped by a cold look or a rush of love for another woman. Or sometimes the dull depression would just drop on her out of nowhere. Even now she could be thrown back into the old anguish if enough circumstances came together with enough force.

  Edith Kesselbaum said that was understandable. “If you put a crazy person and a sane person in the same room,” she had once said in the middle of a discussion about dinner, “sooner or later the sane person will go crazy. Likewise, a self-accepting lesbian and a homophobe. The homophobe probably won’t have her/his consciousness raised, but you can be sure the lesbian will pick up a little temporary slime of homophobia. It’s the nature of things.” She examined a polished nail thoughtfully. “Would you rather go out for Burger King, or order a Pizza Hut delivery?”

  So sometimes the haters made her crazy, made her turn on herself. She supposed it would always be like that. Like an old injury that aches when the weather turns damp, or a once-torn ligament that can never quite take the strain it used to take before the tear. Growing up in a lesbian-hating family in a lesbian-hating town in a lesbian-hating country had left her vulnerable.

  She tried to avoid haters, and to forgive herself when they made her cry.

  “Stoner?”

  She felt a hand touch hers. Softly, questioningly. She looked up at Gwen. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “It’s okay,” Gwen said. “We don’t have to stay at the Floridian.”

  Stoner winced. “I hate it when you read my mind.”

  “I didn’t read your mind. I was thinking the same thing. My grandmother would love that place.” She turned to Stape and George. “My grandmother hasn’t spoken to me since I came out.”

  “Sucks,” Stape muttered.

  “My folks were like that at first,” George said. “But they came around when they realized they’d never see me again if they didn’t.” She shrugged. “It was dicey there for a while. But families are real tight down here.”

  “My grandmother doesn’t show signs of mellowing,” Gwen said. “I’m not even sure I want her to.”

  “You want her to,” Stoner said.

  “I guess.” She turned to George. “How is it to work here, being a lesbian?”

  “A what?” George asked in mock innocence, and Stape guffawed.

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “That bad, huh?”

  The monorail pulled into the Magic Kingdom stop. Over the Turn-of- the-Century railroad station, the turrets of Cinderella’s Castle punctured the evening sky. Crowds of people, treetops, balloons, all jumbled together in a turmoil of color and motion.

  Stoner caught her breath. “It’s overwhelming,” she said.

  “I envy you,” George said as she gathered up her things. “I wish I could see it for the first time again.”

  “Try not to do everything at once,” Stape advised. “Take a day here, a day at Epcot, then decide what you want to see again.” She crammed a visored cap onto her head. “How long you staying?”

  “We have reservations for a week,” Gwen said.

  Stape whistled. “That must have cost you a year’s salary.”

  “Not really,” Stoner said. “They gave us special rates, because I’m a travel agent.”

  “Lucky you,” George said. “They won’t even give the staff special rates. Well, hey, let us know when you want to come to dinner.”

  “Or if you need anything,” Stape added. “Like aluminum siding.”

  They pushed out through the right-hand doors as another mob squeezed in from the left.

  “Amazing,” Gwen said. “We really are everywhere.”

  * * *

  “Well?” Marylou wanted to know, “are you oriented?”

  “Absolutely,” Gwen said. “We caught a glimpse of the Magic Kingdom through the trees, met a borderline-appalling family from the Midwest, were totally intimidated by the Grand Floridian, and made contact with two local dykes.”

  “Sounds like a worthwhile jaunt. You’ll be glad to know my mother has returned, looking none the worse for workshops. Aunt Hermione called to see if we had made it—said she already knew it but Stoner preferred to believe she got her information through worldly channels like everyone else, rather than plucking it out of thin air.”

  Stoner flopped down on the bed. “All right, Marylou.” She felt overloaded and exhausted. Probably the heat and humidity. Back in Boston it would be drizzling and gray, collar-up weather. The Miseries. Here, it was tropical. Maybe a little too tropical, kind of chest-pressing, soggy, breath-grabbing...

  “Incidentally,” Marylou said, “I kept an ear out for your phone. No mysterious calls.”

  “How would you know?” Gwen asked as she peeled off her T-shirt and splashed water over her face. “You probably had all those vibrators going at once.”

  Marylou chose to ignore her. “However, I do have one bit of excitement to report. We have been given tickets to the Polynesian Revue.”

  Stoner shoved herself up on one elbow. “The what?”

  “The Polynesian Revue. At the Polynesian Resort.”

  “But what does it do?”

  “It’s food. Polynesian food. And entertainment. Hula dancers. Fire jugglers.”

  Gwen went to the closet for a shirt. “What’s Polynesian food like?”

  “I don’t know,” Marylou said. “But it sounds exotic. And get this. Usually you have to plan months in advance for tickets, and someone just handed them to us. Free.”

  “Who?” Stoner asked.

  “The management. They were slipped under the door to your room.”

  “Why would they do that?”

 
“Probably,” Gwen said, “we’ve won a contest as the oddest family in Walt Disney World.”

  “WDW,” Stoner corrected.

  Marylou jangled her wrist full of silver bracelets in exasperation. “I can’t believe you people. Someone gives us a fabulous, exciting, once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you act as if they’ve insulted you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stoner said. “I think I’m tired and cranky.”

  Marylou plopped down on the bed beside her and tried to tickle her. “Come on, Stoner. You’re on vacation. Enjoy.”

  “For someone who always hated to travel,” Stoner grumbled as she pulled herself to her feet and headed for the shower, “you’re certainly having a good time.”

  “I’m getting into it.”

  “Of course you are,” Gwen said. “And I can’t wait to see how you take to the monorail.”

  Marylou screamed and threw a pillow at her.

  * * *

  The path leading to the Luau was lined with torches, lazy yellow flames oozing smoke into the humid Florida night. The dining area was packed with families, women in halter tops and shorts, men in Hawaiian shirts, children in Mouse ears and Mickey T-shirts.

  A waitress wrapped in a brilliantly colored sarong and sporting an orchid in her hair came forward and led them toward their table.

  Stoner felt a tug at her sleeve. She dropped back behind the others.

  “Something’s not right,” Aunt Hermione said. “I feel it.”

  She glanced at her aunt’s worried face and experienced a brief sinking feeling of sadness. Her hair seemed grayer, her wrinkles deeper. The soft, smooth skin of her cheeks had a translucent quality, as if she might evaporate at any minute. Aunt Hermione was aging. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Of course, dear.” Her aunt gave a little laugh. “Visiting old friends is always exhausting. Especially when all their Spirit Guides want to drop in for a chat. At times it’s worse than a wedding reception.”

  Stoner had to smile. “I love you, Aunt Hermione.”

  “I love you, too, dear. And I’m not about to die, so you can stop worrying about that. Plenty of time for worry down the road.”

  “Darn it, Aunt Hermione, how many times have I asked you not to read my mind?”

  Her aunt shook her head. “I am sorry, Stoner. Sometimes I forget. After all, we’ve never had secrets from each other.”

  “How could I have secrets from you?” Stoner asked in mock exasperation. “You and Gwen. You’re always poking around in my head.”

  “Oh, my dear,” the older woman said with a little laugh. “You know better than that. As is true of most people, the majority of things that go on in your head are static. Many deep thoughts, of course, an occasional brilliant intuition, and some truly bizarre and stimulating sexual fantasies. But most of the time...” She shrugged. “...static.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Stoner muttered, her face as red as the passion flowers on the hostess’ sarong.

  “I really doubt that, but we can discuss it later.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Someone here is in danger, Stoner. Real danger.”

  “Here?” There must be hundreds of people here, crowded around tables, laughing and drinking in the torchlight.

  “Not everyone here. Though some of them have interesting, moderately dangerous experiences in their near futures.” Aunt Hermione pursed her lips in disapproval. “And a few have conducted themselves disgracefully in this life, and might want to take a look at that. But they’ll just have to do it again until they get it right, won’t they? No, I mean someone in our party.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what worries me. I can’t run it down. Whoever this person is, she or he is very good at blocking. I sense the intrusion but not the target.”

  “It’s a psychic, like you?”

  Aunt Hermione paused for thought. “Not necessarily,” she said at last. “Some people of modest psychic ability can learn to block. As a matter of fact, I usually recommend it to such persons. There is nothing worse than having only modest psychic ability. It leads to unwelcome precognitions, flooding by all sorts of floating messages from the astral plane. They’re likely to go off in all directions, chasing into the night after souls in trouble—some of whom have already passed over but refuse to accept it. Not much one can do on this plane, of course, but highly disturbing. I recall a young man—several years ago it was—drove himself to distraction rush- ing about the country on missions of mercy, or feeling guilty if he didn’t go, which is just as bad. He reached the point of collapse. I had to insist he take up a practical, down-to-earth sort of occupation. I believe he accepted a position in a hardware store and did quite well.”

  A waitress went by with a plate of vegetables and dip. Stoner felt hunger like a live thing waking in her stomach. She followed the waitress with her eyes. “Aunt Hermione...”

  “Some, on the other hand, just aren’t terribly bright. Very hard to penetrate a mind whose contents are merely a low hum. Once inside, what do you have? Not much.”

  “Aunt...”

  “But you take someone with genuine psychic ability, well-developed psychic ability, not like yours which is considerable but dormant… Have I mentioned that my friend Grace is giving courses in psychic development?”

  “Yes,” Stoner said. “Many times.”

  “Still not ready. What a pity.” Aunt Hermione sighed deeply. “But, as I was saying, you take a person with strong psychic powers, and the ability to block—plus no compunction about how he or she uses his or her abilities… well, anything is possible.”

  A tray of something that looked like Chow Mein went by. Stoner gazed at it longingly. “I guess so.”

  Aunt Hermione began moving toward their table. “But what do we have here? A threat. Strong vibrations. Negative energy. Nasty intentions, if you will, directed by and toward person or persons unknown.”

  Person or persons unknown? “I thought you’d sworn off those late-night Perry Mason re-runs.”

  Her aunt tapped her arm. “Try to concentrate, dear. What we do know is that this individual is linked to someone in our party. Someone in our party has enemies...”

  “Everyone in our party probably has an enemy or two.”

  “Yes,” said Aunt Hermione gravely and she pulled out her chair and sat down. “But of this caliber? Who? And why?”

  The eminent Dr. Edith Kesselbaum was resplendent in a black and electric-pink-and-green Muumuu. She sipped an enormous tropical-looking drink and nodded enthusiastically to a tall, slender, balding man with a Sigmund Freud beard. He moved away as they approached. “Lovely to see you again, John,” Edith called after him with a cheery wiggle of the fingers. She turned back to the table and rolled her eyes heavenward. “My God, psychiatrists are the world’s dullest people.”

  Maybe it’s Edith, Stoner thought. Someone out to get her. Professional jealousy. Or a dissatisfied patient. “The risk,” Edith Kesselbaum had once told her, “is that the higher the patient places you on a pedestal at the beginning of treatment, the longer the fall at the end. It’s the Mother archetype that causes the trouble. At first, during the honeymoon period, you’re all they ever dreamed of, mother-wise, but when you let them down—as you inevitably will.” She shuddered. “Well, let’s just say it’s an experience I hope you never have.” She took a sip of her drink. “If you have the good fortune to pass through reality between Heaven and Hell, the visit is invariably brief.”

  Well, if it was Edith, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Ecuador Stoner’d find out from her. Edith Kesselbaum was about as tight-lipped as a shrink could get. Oh, sometimes she referred to problems she’d dealt with— as an object-lesson or to illustrate a point—but Stoner frequently had a sneaking suspicion she made them up. If not, Edith Kesselbaum was blessed with having been consulted by clients who illustrated every point she had ever wanted to make. Actually it was most likely that Edith Kesselbaum drew her conclusions about life from her clients. A unique
approach, one that Stoner had not seen in many therapists.

  Not that she knew many therapists. There was that bunch back in Maine, in the mental hospital she had checked herself into to find Claire Rasmussen. They probably didn’t count, since they were only in the racket to cover up shady doings. On the other hand, Edith had checked the credentials of a few and found them to be genuine. That was pretty disturbing, people using the mental health profession to line their pockets. Though Edith assured her that sort of behavior wasn’t so unusual. “All in the way you look at it, Stoner. Some turn to crime, and some merely charge exorbitant fees. There are those—and I won’t name names, though I’m certainly tempted to—who soak their clients for $1.50, $2.00 a minute. All perfectly legit, too. Let me tell you, before I’d let someone pay me $2.00 a minute for my pearls of wisdom, I’d better be able to make the blind see and the lame walk, and raise the dead.”

  A waitress in a grass skirt and little else offered her something called Chicken Pago Pago that looked like leftover Chop Suey. “Thank you,” she said quickly, averting her eyes from the woman’s bosom, which seemed to be covered only by enormous, mutant, fuchsia hibiscus flowers.

  Gwen caught her eye and gave her an understanding, affectionate smile.

  Gwen. Maybe the person/persons unknown was/were after Gwen.

  Gwen?!

  Gwen didn’t have real enemies. Other than her grandmother, who hadn’t dealt well with Gwen’s announcement that she was in love with Stoner, and whom she hadn’t seen in nearly fifteen months as a result.

  Her ex-husband probably wasn’t terribly fond of her at the moment, either, considering that she and Stoner had contributed to his death. But there wasn’t a lot he could do in his present condition, and even if he’d reincarnated immediately, he’d still be too young to do any harm.

  The same went for Larch Begay, back there in Arizona…

  “What?” Gwen asked when she laughed out loud.

  “I was just thinking, the people who do you wrong seem to end up dead.”

  “Well,” Gwen said sweetly, “let that be a lesson to you.” She sniffed Stoner’s plate. “Are you really going to eat that?”