by Sarah Dreher
"That's not true," Gwen said. "I married Bryan Oxnard. You didn't."
"Well, you're always right about small things."
Gwen thought about it. "Yes," she said, "I do believe you're right about that."
Stoner looked over at her and felt a rush of emotion sweep over her like a gust of summer wind. "Gwen, I… I feel so much for you it scares me."
"And I love you so much," Gwen said in her low, velvet voice, "it terrifies me." She laughed affectionately... and sexily... and tightened her grip on Stoner's hand.
Stoner's body responded on cue, her skin opening and tingling.
Great, she thought. Lust in the middle of Cambridge. She cleared her throat. "I'll bet that student of yours can't wait to get home and call everyone she knows and tell them her former history teacher was holding hands with another woman in public."
"I'll bet she can't wait to tell them her former history teacher was holding hands with the woman who murdered her husband."
"I didn't murder him, Gwen. It was self-defense."
"I know," Gwen said, giving Stoner's hand a little squeeze and withdrawing her own. "But it's more fun this way. After all, these are the 'nineties.'"
Dessert and coffee... served by yet another waitperson... didn't bring her any closer to a decision.
"Look," Gwen said at last as she counted out the money for the tip, "you know you're going to do it, so let's stop by Marylou's as long as we're in Cambridge, and you can reassure yourself she won't care."
"Well..."
Gwen looked closely at her. "It's something else, isn't it? In addition to guilt."
"Sort of." She couldn't remember when she'd stopped being able to fool Gwen. In their four years together as friends and then lovers, Gwen had gotten to know her pretty well. Actually, that wasn't completely accurate. Stoner had let Gwen get to know her pretty well. She didn't regret it, but sometimes it was a little unnerving. "To be perfectly honest..."
"Always a good idea," Gwen said in an encouraging way.
"It's not just the Yuppies or whatever… I really am kind of afraid of the furniture." She brushed her hand through her hair. "I mean, the kind of place that has that kind of furniture."
Gwen took another glance at the brochure. "I see what you mean. On the other hand, it might help you get over your fear of history."
"This is not the way to do it. Honest. I'm from Rhode Island. Rhode Island is full of history. Rhode Island reeks of history. Being around history is not going to get me over my fear of history."
"Well," Gwen said with a sigh, "I guess I can't help you. Back home in Georgia, history is what we do best." She got up and took the check. "Stoner, you know and I know you're going to do it."
Stoner took a deep breath. ''Yeah, okay, but only if..."
"If?"
"If you'll come along."
"I thought you'd never ask," Gwen said.
Marylou was delighted. More than delighted. "You don't know," she said, "how I've been praying for this. Now I can get our mess straightened out."
"There's still the missing Tidrow suitcase," Stoner began.
Her friend dismissed it with a gesture. "I put a trace on it yesterday."
"The charter to Naples is falling apart..."
"I can handle it, Stoner."
"Remember the Morocco disaster? The hi-jacking?"
Her friend looked at her patiently. "That was the work of terrorists, not travel agents." She got up from her desk, nearly knocking over a stack of mysterious paper slips that looked suspiciously like the copies of airline tickets for the past six months.
"Marylou, if those are what I think they are..."
"They are."
Stoner felt hysterical. "We're supposed to turn them in, Marylou. Those things are like money. If they start checking our records..."
"Oh, calm yourself." She rummaged through a cardboard box marked "fragile" and pulled out a box of Snackwell's Devil's Food cookies. "Those are copies of copies. You know I send the original copies in every week."
"Oh."
"I'm more organized than you think I am, Stoner. I'd think you'd have noticed that in nineteen years."
Stoner was amazed. "Have we known each other that long?"
“We have, indeed." Marylou extracted a cookie and consumed it lovingly.
"And in all that time you've never offered me a cookie."
"That's right, and I never will. Sugar isn't good for you."
"It's good for you?"
"Of course it is." Marylou rubbed her fingertips together to brush off the crumbs. "I have a metabolism."
"Everyone has a metabolism."
"Not like mine."
Stoner turned on her computer, just to see what American Airlines was up to. There seemed to be an inordinate number of available seats. She brought up the screen for Friday. Same thing. “What's with American?"
Marylou came around the desk and peered at her CRT. She smelled of chocolate and Dewberry bath and shower gel from the Body Shop. "Beats me. I haven't heard any rumors. Try United."
She punched up the United Airlines data base. They were booked solid. She tried Delta. Same result.
"Curious," said Marylou.
''Yeah. Are you still speaking to that guy that runs the American ticket counter out at Logan?”
"Of course I'm still speaking to him," Marylou said huffily. "I haven't been out with him."
Marylou firmly believed that the best way to get rid of a bothersome admirer was to date him. "It destroys the mystique," she was fond of saying.
Stoner found that hard to understand, since the better she got to know Marylou the more she liked her. Even after all this time, Marylou could surprise her. She supposed it was because Marylou liked to change and grow, and you never knew what direction she was going to do it in. On top of that, her loyalty to Stoner was as solid as rock, something Stoner treasured above everything else.
Men, she supposed, were interested in other things. Not only sex... though they were certainly interested in that to a pathological degree... but they seemed to want otherworldly, almost mythic qualities in a woman.
"Nonsense," Marylou had once said. "They want the mother they think they had but didn't."
Since Marylou Kesselbaum wasn't about to be any man's mother, real or otherwise, she was frequently a disappointment to them.
“Why don't you give him a call?" Stoner suggested. "See if he knows what's up."
“Good plan." Marylou grabbed another Snackwell and made a dive for the phone.
Stoner turned her attention back to her desk. The pile of things to do hadn't decreased since she'd been looking the other way. In fact, it seemed to have grown, and was at the point of reaching critical mass. The worst of it was the sorting, deciding what was vital to keep and move, and what could be thrown away. She knew the minute she decided something had outlived its usefulness—like the receipts from the money they'd paid back to a group of charter passengers when Pan Am went belly-up—and threw it away, the IRS would descend like crows on a corn field demanding to see documentation for their ten-year-old tax returns.
So the receipts went in the "To Be Moved" box. Which placed them under Marylou's jurisdiction, since the movers would be there on the fourteenth of the month, exactly five days after Stoner had abandoned the travel agency like a rat leaving a sinking ship, to go off and play detective for a group of people she'd never met. Guilt, and then worry, washed over her. It wasn't fair, no matter how much Marylou said it didn't bother her, to leave her with all this responsibility. Not fair at all. Besides, she'd probably get into conversation with the movers and talk them into taking her to lunch at one of her favorite restaurants and leave all their valuable documents sitting on the street in the rain or something...
"You're kidding," she heard Marylou say into the phone. ''You're not kidding? You must be kidding."
“What?" Stoner mouthed silently.
"Hang on," Marylou said into the phone. "There's someone on the other line." She c
overed the mouthpiece with her hand. "Strike rumors."
"Really?"
"Just rumors."
"Who's striking?"
"Get a grip on your bra straps," said Marylou. "This one's a shocker." She paused for dramatic effect. "Food service."
Stoner guffawed. "No one stays away from an airline because they might not be fed. Not airline food."
''You're right." She turned back to the phone. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Okay, you've had your little joke. What's the real poop?" She listened. "Oh, them. Well, it's always something, isn't it?" She glanced in Stoner's direction and indicated 'bomb threat.'
Bomb threats. If it wasn't one thing these days, it was another. She wished people would just calm down and go about their business and stop trying to involve innocent by-standers who didn't even know what the issues were. But testosterone poisoning was at an all-time high on Planet Earth, and violence reigned.
Aunt Hermione's spirit guides assured her it was the last gasp of the dying Patriarchy, unwilling to give up without a fight, and that better days were ahead. The New Age dawning with birth pangs as the Earth came out of the Dark Ages and into the Era of Love, Light, and Life. Trouble was, the Guides had no sense of Time-as-we-know-it, and couldn't give any estimates as to how long they'd have to wait. "Maybe not in this lifetime," Aunt Hermione said, "though of course that's an artificial concept, too, since all time is happening simultaneously so it's really dawning right this minute."
Talking about Time and Space always made the inside of Stoner's head feel like a television screen when the cable's gone out-all gray snow and static.
"God," Marylou blustered as she hung up the phone, "I wish they'd tell us those things. What would it take, to type it into the Main Frames? What are we supposed to do, sit around watching CNN all the time so we'll know what to tell our clients? What if we'd gone ahead and scheduled people on those flights? And they'd gotten to the airport and discovered their flights weren't happening? Who'd they blame? Those of us who serve in the trenches, that's who."
"I absolutely agree," Stoner said. "I don't know what's going to happen after we move. We'll be even more remote than we are now. The whole industry could close down, and we probably wouldn't know it."
"It'll be better," Marylou insisted. "News gets around quicker in small towns."
''Yeah,'' Stoner said, "but what if it's all local news? I mean, people in Shelburne Falls might not be into airline gossip. We could end up totally out of the loop."
"Nonsense," Marylou said with breezy optimism. "They're into all kinds of gossip. Didn't you ever read Sinclair Lewis?"
She hadn't, but she had read Shirley Jackson. And what she'd read in Shirley Jackson didn't give her a good feeling about small towns.
The anxiety about their decision that she usually kept at bay came flooding back. "Marylou? Do you think we're making a mistake?"
"Not in the least. You hate the city. Gwen wants a break from teaching. Aunt Hermione's longing for a place with better psychic vibes. This building's going condo... a good five years after the end of the condo craze, a prescription for disaster if you ask me. And I have to start learning to live on my own."
Stoner smiled. "You won't be exactly living on your own. All of us in one huge old house."
"Yes," Marylou said, "but it'll be my house, not my mother's. That does seem like a step forward."
She had to admit it was. Though she'd never had the feeling there was anything wrong or neurotic about Marylou's living arrangements. No more so than her own, with Aunt Hermione. Marylou and Edith actually liked one another, the way Stoner and her aunt did. It was convenient, and there was no good reason not to. What did worry her, though, was living with Gwen—the first time she had ever actually shared living space with a lover. True, they had all agreed that they wouldn't look at the arrangement as LIVING TOGETHER, but all of them sharing a house. But that didn't change the fact that they would be under the same roof, every day, for meals, taking out the garbage and doing the dishes and cleaning and hearing each other's music and knowing who watched what on television, and how long everyone took in the bathroom...
It made her want to scream.
"You look awful," Marylou said.
"I'm frightened."
"It'll be fine," Marylou said with a wave of her hand. "We'll be a huge success." She took a bite of cookie, dribbling crumbs across her desk top. "One look at you and Gwen, and the entire lesbian population of Western Massachusetts will be flocking to our door."
"Maybe," Stoner said. "But maybe it's not politically correct to use a travel agent out there."
"Then we'll target the elderly population. Elderly people take to you. I think it's because you're always so polite."
"What if the only time they leave home is to go to Florida for the winter?"
Marylou wet her finger and set to work picking up chocolate crumbs. "They have to get there, don't they? And Aunt Hermione can bring in business from her clients and other psychics. Surely they don't all travel out-of-body." She gathered the crumbs into a little pile. "My contribution will to be to volunteer for civic-minded activities and meet wealthy and important people. I might even be invited to address the Rotary Club."
In spite of her apprehension, Stoner had to smile. She could picture Marylou organizing bake sales for the Lassie League. Helping with the SPCA benefit flea dip. Going on overnights with the Girl Scouts. Pitching in at the Happy Sunset Nursing Home Christmas Bazaar...
"Well," Stoner admitted at last, "whatever happens, it won't be dull."
"Not for a minute. I promise." She rolled the pile of crumbs into a soft ball and popped it in her mouth.
Stoner grimaced. Gwen was only half right. Both of the Kesselbaums ate garbage. ''You're going to miss her. Your mother, I mean."
"No doubt," Marylou said. "But you have no idea what it's like having a psychiatrist for a mother."
"No, but I know what it's like having your mother for a psychiatrist. She was very understanding."
"That's what I mean," Marylou said with an animated jangle of bracelets. "She's too understanding. She understands and understands until I want to scream."
"I always thought that was a good quality."
"In a shrink, it is. Not in a mother. My God, adolescence was hell. There was nothing I could do to get a rise out of her."
"When you were kidnapped, that got a rise out of her," Stoner suggested helpfully.
"Sure," Marylou countered. "And if she thinks I'm going to go around putting myself in harm's way just to get a rise out of her, she can go to her grave un-risen.”
"People usually do. It's afterward they rise."
Marylou tore open a pack of Raptor Bites and threw one at her.
“Where in the world did you get this?" Stoner asked. Raptor Bites were definitely not Marylou's style.
"Some heathen child left it on my desk. Its mother was trying to arrange a trip to the Mall of America, and it wanted to go to Jurassic Park."
"I don't blame it," Stoner said.
"The Mall of America," Marylou declared, "is my idea of Heaven."
"Maybe you'll go there sometime."
"After I die, no doubt. If I don't rise." She began to sort the travel brochures into two piles, one on her desk and one on the floor.
Stoner watched her for a while. "Interesting system," she said at last.
"It's simple. These..." She indicated the pile on her desk. "...are the keepers. And these..." She pointed to the floor pile. "...are the losers." She tossed a couple of garishly colored folders onto the "losers" pile. "How's the packing going at home?"
"Fine. Aunt Hermione's very organized. I just do what she tells me."
Marylou glanced up. "You do what she tells you, and I might as well slit my wrists as give you even the tiniest suggestion?"
"It's not that I don't trust your judgment," Stoner said quickly. "Most of the stuff in the brownstone's hers, that's all."
"It never ceases to amaze me," Marylou remarked as s
he sorted another handful of folders, "how you can accumulate so much office stuff, and so few personal items."
Stoner thought about it. "I guess it's because I know what's important in my stuff, but this... " She waved her arm in a gesture that took in the office. "...we could need anything at any time."
"I see," said Marylou with great seriousness. "The operative concept is, whatever causes you the most anxiety gets to stay."
"Something like that, I guess."
"Then Gwen and I had better start working on our intimidation styles."
She couldn't help laughing. "That's not what it's about, Marylou. It's things. Things frighten me."
Marylou looked at her as if she were crazy, and silently offered her a stick of Clove gum. She turned it down.
It was true, though, no matter how crazy it sounded. Things did frighten her. They had a life of their own, and operated under rules that were different from people's rules. For instance, they could transform themselves into totally different entities on a whim. She had seen $20 bills turn into ATM machine receipts in her very wallet. They could appear and disappear at will. Music tapes and CDs were especially good at that. Once, a strange record had appeared in her collection. She'd never bought it. No one had given it to her. It didn't belong to anyone she knew. It claimed to be classical music, by a composer she'd never heard of, played by artists she'd never heard of. It was on top of the stack, and hadn't been there the last time she'd looked.
Aunt Hermione told her it was called an "apport," and had slipped through from a parallel universe.
This was not comforting.
But the worst thing about things was their ability to disguise themselves right in plain view. Get five or six things together, and they could combine themselves into senseless piles of color and shape, so dense you couldn't separate out the one you wanted—the unanswered letter or unpaid bill, for instance, from the stack of junk mail.
About this phenomenon, Aunt Hermione took a surprisingly terrestrial viewpoint, and suggested that Stoner might be getting to the age where she needed to think about glasses.
"Stoner."
She looked up.
"Do you realize you've been sitting there, motionless, for the past ten minutes?"
