by Cindy Rizzo
“What do you do with yourself when you’re not helping strangers win at pinball?” Miri asked her.
“I’m an auto mechanic,” Van answered matter-of-factly. “Is that gonna be a problem for you?”
“Actually…” Miri’s hand strayed to Van’s thigh. She had a thing for women who worked nontraditional jobs. “I think it’s damn hot.” Her voice was low.
“So, why haven’t I been lucky enough to see you at any Meetup groups before?” Van’s voice grew husky. “I’m probably in every one between here and Morris County.”
There it was. That awkward moment when Miri might have to out herself as a late bloomer. She worried about whether to tell Van too soon. Still, she couldn’t look into those eyes and tell her anything but the truth.
“I, um—”
Ding! Van’s pocket emitted a sharp beep. She pulled out her smartphone and stared at the screen. “Damn, is it that late? Listen, Miri, I hate to cut you off, but I kind of have to be somewhere at midnight.”
Tell me she’s got a booty call! Figures I’d find a player. It stung, but Miri suddenly remembered she had somewhere to be as well. Shop-Rite’s sale on gelato was starting at midnight.
They exchanged phone numbers and agreed to catch up during the week. At least, that’s what Van claimed as she gave Miri one long, last, hungry glance before leaving. Miri figured this would be the first and last time they’d connect. She consoled herself knowing there was a pint of pistachio gelato waiting for her.
* * *
Ten minutes after midnight, Van cruised past the cashiers, intent on making her trip to Shop-Rite a short one. As she moved through the market, she debated the best day to call Miri. Is tomorrow too soon? Wait, it technically is tomorrow. She hummed at the thought of hearing Miri’s voice again.
Just then, Van heard shouting as she rounded the corner of the syrup-and-nuts aisle on the way to the gelato. She wondered what drama was unfolding at such a late hour. As she neared the frozen-foods section, she could make out two angry voices belonging to a man and a woman.
“Sorry, bud, I had it first. Get your hands off my pistachio!” The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“You practically snatched it out of my hands, you bitch. Give it to me.” The man’s voice exploded into the silence of the supermarket. There was no doubt about the owner of that voice.
Tell me it isn’t Frank. Van rushed to the ice cream section and was stunned by the sight: her brother Frank, still dressed in his Cupid costume and biker jacket, was attempting to wrestle a plastic container of pistachio gelato out of the hands of…Miri!
After recoiling from the shock of seeing Miri so soon, Van was consumed with embarrassment. She’d be damned if her spoiled-brat brother would bully someone she might have a chance with. Barreling between them, Van grabbed the container of soon-to-be-melting pistachio gelato, held it high, and glared at her brother.
“Back off, Frank!”
“Wh— You know him?” Miri asked. Her eyes opened wide.
“Miri, this is my baby brother, Frank. And yes, he’s wearing a diaper,” Van said, smirking. “Frank, she got the gelato first. Fuck off.”
After quickly getting rid of him through sheer bribery—a gallon of Breyer’s for him and coffee gelato for her mom—Van returned to a stunned Miri.
“So, now that we’ve done things backwards and you’ve met part of my dysfunctional family, how about a date?” Van asked. “I have this sudden craving for pistachio gelato, but alas, you’ve got the only remaining container.”
“I suppose I could reward my rescuer.” Miri cracked a smile, and Van knew the Frank debacle wouldn’t be a deal breaker.
* * *
A half hour later, they sat side by side on Miri’s sofa, their body heat melting what was left of the pistachio gelato, as they watched a Law and Order rerun. The glow of the TV lit the otherwise dark living room.
Van drew one arm around Miri’s shoulders. She stroked her hair and reached over with the other hand, her fingers trailing gently down Miri’s neck.
Miri shivered as goose bumps spread across her body.
Van reached the edge of her V-neck blouse, and her fingers danced lightly, back and forth over Miri’s skin, before they moved lower, skimming the surface of the fabric.
Miri’s nipples hardened at Van’s touch. She took a deep breath, and a mixture of arousal and hesitation filled her. She had to tell her; it was only fair. “Van, I’ve never…I came out late. I’ve never been with a woman before.” Her voice wasn’t more than a croak. She’d spoken quickly, hoping to get it over with…hoping her words wouldn’t scare Van away.
“Well, then I feel pretty damn honored.” Van gazed at her and grinned. “I’d like to be your first.”
Miri looked back at her, eyes smoldering as she inhaled Van’s tantalizing scent. She reached up and traced her hand across Van’s cheek, before she dipped a finger in the container, took a dab of gelato, and slowly spread it on Van’s neck. She leaned forward and swirled her tongue, licking the sticky sweetness away.
“So, is pistachio your favorite flavor?” Van managed, almost in a whisper.
Miri’s lips moved to Van’s; she stroked her tongue back and forth, teasing the silken surface, until Van’s lips parted. Miri’s tongue briefly plunged inside before she withdrew, ready to respond.
“Used to be,” Miri said. “But I think I’ve found my new favorite flavor.”
###
V-Day 1978
by Cindy Rizzo
Someone had drawn a thick black line through the words “Valentine’s Day” on the large community wall calendar in the common room and in pink marker replaced it with “Vagina Day!” Katie smiled and shrugged, wondering what the lesbians of Sojourner Women’s Land had in store for February 14th. No doubt it would be serious and purposeful, in spite of the provocative name. Romance and whimsy were not their strong suit.
She made her way down the hill for her work shift. Her construction skills, which she viewed as amateurish at best, were highly valued here. When she told the Collective Membership Committee that she’d spent the last two summers volunteering for a new group that built homes for poor families, she was quickly passed through the usually long screening process and was welcomed to what these women referred to as “The Land.”
Katie considered it a refuge, at least for now. It saved her from going back to the craziness of home and from facing the prospect of looking for a job in the real world armed only with a degree in sociology. And maybe if she honed her skills here, she could apply to get into an apprentice program in carpentry. That is, if she could find a place that would accept not just a woman, but a dyke to boot.
The little cabin she was constructing came into view. Thoughts about the future could be laid aside for another day; today she had to finish hanging windows. And maybe, just maybe she’d catch a few minutes with Hillary as she made her rounds to check on the supply inventory.
Now that it was January, the Arizona weather had cooled to the point where a day spent sawing, hammering, and sanding wood wasn’t unbearable. She wondered whether she’d stay through the spring, when the temperature would again soar. The so-called dry heat she’d been promised, while not as oppressive as a summer back east, still posed a challenge to working outdoors for any extended period of time. She looked down at the window frame lying propped against the inside wall of the cabin and hoped that the measurements she’d taken yesterday were accurate.
“How’s my favorite construction worker?”
Hillary’s sweet voice floated in from the open space where the window would soon be fitted. Katie looked over and saw the perfectly framed tanned, oval-shaped face and the wavy, light brown hair that almost reached her shoulders. She was letting it grow but had confided to Katie the other day that she was a bit worried it might make her stand out among all of the short-haired inhabitants of The Land.
“I don’t want anybody to think I’m making a statement or anything. I just think I loo
k better with longer hair,” she’d said. “But I don’t know, maybe I’ll cut it again.”
Katie had replied honestly, “It looks nice long. I think you should do what feels right to you.”
“I’d rather it not become an issue, you know.”
But so far she hadn’t cut it, and Katie smiled back at her, flattered to be called Hillary’s favorite anything, even if the remark had been a lighthearted joke.
“So, what’s Vagina Day all about? I saw it written in on the calendar as a replacement for Valentine’s Day.”
Hillary looked at her with a blank expression, her mouth open for a few seconds, and then nodded. “Oh, right. We did that last year. Everyone gets to look at her own cervix using a speculum and a mirror. It’s pretty amazing.”
Katie shook her head in surprise. “You’re kidding.”
“No. It’s our statement opposing the patriarchal materialism of Valentine’s Day, which is all about celebrating heterosexual hegemony and ownership of women by men.”
“And love,” Katie added.
“The kind you buy in a store, you mean?”
Katie could never tell if Hillary actually believed this stuff she said or if she just spouted what she thought was the standing gospel of Sojourner Women’s Land. Not so different, she thought, from memorizing the catechism when she was in Sunday school. She realized early on that being able to parrot back the words was far more important than actually accepting them as truth.
The Collective Membership Committee had assigned Hillary as Katie’s orientation buddy. This was usually a short-term assignment, but in Katie’s case, since she had been excused from the longer screening process, the collective lengthened her trial period and tasked Hillary with making sure Katie would fit in. Usually that kind of thing would have rankled her, but spending extra time with Hillary had been a bonus and one of the few things that was helping Katie ease into her new life at Sojourner.
Once Hillary had acquainted Katie with the physical layout of The Land and the routines, obligations, and rituals of daily life, they began to take long walks into the woods, stopping to sit near a little pond about a half mile south of Sojourner. It was there that Katie opened up about her family—the nights awash in alcohol, the terrifying car rides, the ruthless spankings that morphed into beatings as she got older, and the uneasy silences before the sun rose in the early mornings when her parents were sleeping it off.
Hillary had listened attentively without saying much, which filled Katie with relief. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy or pity. What she got instead from Hillary was a special kind of softness, like the feeling of landing on a featherbed. Maybe it was the way her velvety brown eyes never wavered from Katie’s face. Maybe it was the way she breathed out quietly at the end of one of Katie’s stories and touched her forearm, not removing her hand for a long while. The only thing Hillary had ever said was, “That’s way more than you should have had to deal with.”
One of Hillary’s responsibilities as orientation buddy had been to familiarize Katie with what the residents of Sojourner called The Commitments, a long list of acceptable behaviors for members of the collective. Some of The Commitments actually made sense to Katie, given the fact that twenty women were trying to live with each other in a peaceful and cooperative environment. She liked that there were clear procedures for resolving differences using facilitated discussion. Her life at home had been filled with enough knockdown drag-outs to last a lifetime. She also approved of the collective’s focus on ecology, or “respecting Mother Earth” as The Commitments stated. In the short time she’d been here, she’d already learned a lot about composting and finding new uses for items like bottles and boxes.
But not all of The Commitments were so noble. Among Katie’s least favorite was the proscription against what was called “coupling.” For two people to become attached to one another was viewed as an act of ownership and exclusion. If you and another woman sat next to each other too often at meals or meetings, you were labeled “couplist” and were called out at the next Reflection Circle, a ritual Katie usually sat through without saying much, trying to fade into the background.
Hillary never smiled or joked when she went over The Commitments with Katie, not even the silly stuff like the thing about coupling. Instead she explained the political theory behind each requirement. Women had been confined to the couplist structure for centuries, and what had it gotten them? Monogamy was a vestige of patriarchy. At Sojourner, she explained, nobody owned anyone else. Each of them was free to consent to sex or physical affection with any of the women living on The Land.
Again Katie wondered how much Hillary really believed, especially given that her lessons about The Commitments were delivered while they sat on the banks of the pond at sunset, their eyes fixed on each another, their thighs touching.
Now looking past Katie from her place at the window opening, Hillary chuckled. “Hey, your sidekick’s coming,” she said.
Katie turned to see Fredi walking through the open door, struggling with the large bucket of spackle she was carrying.
“Hey, Fredi,” Katie said. “Here, let me help.”
“Hi there,” Hillary called through the window opening.
Fredi turned her head and grinned. “You look like you’re on TV, Hillary. You could star in your own show, like Mary Tyler Moore.”
Hillary leaned forward, her arms crossed and resting on the bottom of the window opening. “A radical, lesbian, feminist Mary Tyler Moore would never get on TV.”
Fredi smiled. “You never know. Maybe they’d let me play the part of your funny upstairs neighbor, like Rhoda.”
“I used to love that show,” Katie said. “It gave me hope that one day, like Mary, I could leave home and have my own apartment.”
Katie saw Hillary’s face soften. “How are you fixed for supplies?” she asked, the compassionate tone in her voice likely a reaction to Katie’s reference to her family troubles.
Hillary’s work assignment at Sojourner was administration, including inventory. But Katie wondered whether the daily visits to the cabin site asking if she needed anything could mean more than just diligent attention to her responsibilities.
“I could use another box of these,” Katie said, holding up a two-inch screw. “I think they’ll work well for the furniture.”
“She’s planning to do a lot of screwing, Hillary,” said Fredi, smiling widely.
Katie turned to her with a short laugh.
“Fredi,” Hillary said, a tone of reproach in her voice, “you know better than to say that what a lesbian does is ‘screwing.’”
Fredi stared down at her hands. “Yeah, I guess that wasn’t very funny.”
Katie wished that everyone wouldn’t talk down to Fredi. She always meant well and wanted more than anything to demonstrate that she was of worth to Sojourner. Like Katie, she hadn’t had an easy life. As a kid, she’d been shunted through a series of foster homes until she was finally adopted by a kind but strict older couple who tried with all their might to get her to be the devoted Jehovah’s Witness daughter they’d always hoped for. Fredi had failed them miserably.
“I’m only good for one thing,” Fredi had told her one day as they worked together on the cabin. “Archery. For some reason, since the first time I picked up a bow and was shown how to hold it, I could just sense how to put the arrow where it had to go, like it was being propelled from somewhere inside of me.”
And it was true. Using a makeshift target they had fashioned out in the field, Fredi always hit her mark. At Sojourner, the proscription against weapons listed in The Commitments meant that Fredi had to use rubber-tipped arrows, the kind usually found in a child’s archery set. Still, she cheerfully accepted the limitations of this poor substitute for the heavier, sharper, more aerodynamic version she was used to. Katie had found a piece of cedar in the toolshed and was hoping to create some kind of arrow for Fredi that was closer to the real thing.
In the meantime, she’d given Fred
i something else—her friendship. And Fredi had proven to be a competent assistant. It turned out that the hand-eye coordination that served her well in archery was also an asset in numerous aspects of carpentry. Her measurements and angling of the wood joints, two aspects of the work that Katie found daunting, were flawless. Unlike Fredi, who tired easily, Katie could spend hours sawing, hammering, and laying wood flooring. But what Fredi lacked in endurance, she more than compensated for in exactitude. Together they made a great team.
While Katie had recruited Fredi as her primary helper, most of the other women at Sojourner took an interest in construction work, and soon Katie, with her meager skills, was tasked with teaching and supervising small groups eager to learn how to saw, lay sheetrock, and measure out flooring. She quickly discovered that, in spite of their tiresome piety, the majority of the residents of Sojourner Women’s Land were actually nice, even friendly. Katie, who never before felt comfortable in groups, had been made to feel welcome.
But today it was just she and Fredi lifting the window into the space. It fit perfectly.
“How’s it going with Hillary?” Fredi asked as they stood admiring their handiwork. “Any progress?”
“Kind of the same.” Katie sighed. “Long smoldering looks, lots of confidences exchanged, but nothing else. It feels like things are at a standstill, and I’m not sure how to get them moving. She’s very into this ‘no coupling’ thing.”
“Well, Valentine’s Day is coming. Maybe you could do something then?”
“You mean the celebration of heterosexual hegemony?” Katie rolled her eyes. “She’ll be busy looking at her cervix in the mirror.”
“Oh, yeah.” Fredi shrugged. “I forgot about that. Well, they do have a point. I mean, it probably is a holiday invented by Hallmark. But still, you never know.”
A week later, Katie got Hillary’s attention while they were clearing their dishes after dinner in the communal dining room. “Would you like to take a walk?”
