Bad Company

by Sarah Dreher

  "I have?"

  Marylou came over and perched on the edge of Stoner's desk. "Look," she said, "if this move has you crazy, we'll cancel it."

  "It's too late. We've made all the arrangements..."

  "Arrangements aren't carved in stone. Or, if we can't change them, we'll move and then turn around and move back."

  She'd do it, too. Stoner felt a huge upsurge of affection and gratitude for her friend. "It's not the move. Not entirely. It's just… I don't know."

  “Well," said Marylou conclusively, "I know. It's the change."

  "The Change of Life?"

  "Of location. You're afraid of change. Always have been."

  Stoner looked down at her desk. "Maybe."

  "No 'maybes' about it." She brushed her fingers through Stoner's hair. "Once you find something or someone who makes you feel safe, you hang onto it like a dog with a T-bone steak."

  "How would you know?" Stoner said irritably. She knew Marylou was right, and it embarrassed her and made her prickly. "You never had a dog."

  "No," Marylou said, and moved behind her and massaged the back of Stoner's neck, "but I'll bet you, within one month of the move, I'll be living with one." She tucked one finger under Stoner's chin and pulled her head up to look her in the eye. "Won't I?"

  "Maybe." A dog. They were going to live in the country, and she could have a dog.

  "Or is it something else?" Marylou asked.

  "Is what something else?"

  "What's troubling you."

  Stoner shook her head. "I'm okay."

  "You are not," declared Marylou, "okay."

  She knew Marylou was right. She wasn't okay. She wanted this move, that was the trouble. Wanted it so much she might have forced it on the rest of them. Wanted it so much she might have manipulated...

  "Responsible," Marylou guessed. "You feel responsible for all of us. You think we don't want this, and we're just doing it to please you, and you'll have our unhappiness on your hands for the rest of your life."

  "You know too much," Stoner grumbled, and glared at the floor. "I'll bet you've been reading your mother's case notes."

  "No can do. She keeps them locked in the trunk of her car. I know you, old pal. It's as simple as that. And you know me. You might as well get used to the idea. Frankly, I rather like it."

  "Well," Stoner said reluctantly, "I guess I do, too."

  "So let it go, Stoner. Go solve the Mystery of the Troubled Theater. By the time you get back, the worst will be over."

  Stoner faked a frown of cautious disbelief. "Famous last words," she said.

  Chapter Two

  The lobby of The Cottage, torn between its casual function and its formal atmosphere, had thrown its vote to the side of formal. Instead of a check-in counter, there was an antique writing desk bearing an open registration book (leather bound), a blotter, a quill pen with ball point tip, and a tap bell. There was no one in sight.

  Marylou removed her white elbow-length gloves one finger at a time and looked around with palpable approval. She usually hated to travel—"Being Carried Along," she called it—but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. Once she had made the commitment she had, as she pointed out every five miles between Boston and Bangor, dressed for the occasion. Old-fashioned duster, wide-brimmed hat with flowing veil, and sunglasses. Gwen claimed it had given her second-hand Honda a new lease on life.

  Stoner, struggling into the room under the weight of her suitcases, reminded herself that she was dressed for driving, too. Especially if she had to change a tire. She'd spent the majority of the morning washing and ironing her favorite 70s regulation Feminist work shirt and polishing her regulation Feminist hiking boots. Her jeans were new, but not stiff. "I'm making a statement," she'd explained to Gwen. "I refuse to be intimidated by furniture." Trouble was, she suspected she looked exactly as if she were intimidated and trying not to show it.

  In fact, Gwen was the only one of them who really looked appropriate. In her slacks and light weight shirt and running shoes, she was dressed for summer. For hot, un-air-conditioned summer.

  The Cottage was hot. And it wasn't air-conditioned.

  Marylou swept off her hat, made a quick appraising trip through the living room and declared The Cottage "Perfect."

  "I'm glad you like it," Stoner said. ''You can take my place."

  "Nonsense," said Marylou. "It's you they want. Besides, I can't imagine sleeping under the same roof with strangers."

  ''You slept under the same roof with strangers at Walt Disney World," Gwen pointed out.

  ''Yes, I did. And, as you might recall, it was a highly unpleasant experience."

  "I thought you enjoyed being kidnapped."

  "There were anxious moments," Marylou said. "This is not my year for anxious moments."

  Stoner put her suitcases down with a thud. "I'll see if I can find someone."

  "One does not..." Marylou announced, "...scurry about the corridors in this sort of place demanding service."

  "She's been reading F. Scott Fitzgerald," Stoner explained to Gwen.

  "In that case, we certainly have to do what's appropriate, don't we?" Gwen said. She slammed the palm of her hand down onto the tap bell.

  Stoner cringed.

  A door banged in the distance. A cheery voice sang, "Coming." Footsteps pit-patted along a hallway.

  Stoner steeled herself. All right, she was here to do a job, to help out a group of lesbians—or at least wimmin—in need. Regardless of the surroundings, or how much her mother would like them, she had to rise above her insecurities and take charge.

  "Sherry here!"

  The woman was short and thin, with round cheeks and round eyes. Her curly, reddish-blonde hair formed an aura around her head. A rather healthy aura, Stoner thought. Plenty of color, plenty of depth. Still, it verged on the side of red, and Aunt Hermione always recommended caution when interpreting a red aura. "Sometimes a sign of vigor and passion, but often signifies rage," she was fond of saying. "One must judge each case by its merits. As in the visible world, so in the invisible. Or is it the other way around?"

  Sherry was dressed in a long, flowing brocade skirt—roses on a black background—and a white silk blouse with long sleeves and pearl buttons. She wore a pink scarf around her neck, and patent leather Capezios. Amazingly, she wasn't even perspiring. Like a painting, a Nineteenth Century portrait of a Lady. Right at home in The Cottage. All she lacked was a bouquet of roses tossed lightly across one arm.

  "I'm so sorry I wasn't here to meet you," Sherry said. "A minor disaster in the kitchen."

  Marylou nodded smugly, giving Stoner a 'I knew only an emergency would keep the proprietor of a place like this from greeting us at the door' look.

  "The dairy delivered salted butter. Can you imagine it? I've told them a thousand times, We do not use salted butter at The Cottage. It's so low-rent. Would you like a glass of wine?"

  ''Yes, indeed!" Marylou nearly shouted with enthusiasm. Obviously, Sherry Dodder was Marylou's kind of people.

  "Burgundy or chablis?"

  "Please, chablis," said Marylou. "It's much too hot for burgundy."

  "A woman after my own heart." Sherry took an ancient key from her pocket and began unlocking a small porcelain-knobbed door beneath the stairs. She looked questioningly at Stoner and Gwen.

  "No, thanks," Gwen said.

  Stoner shook her head. She was going to feel completely out-of-place here. The Cottage was a dreadful place, no doubt packed with dreadful people. Whatever this women's theater group was, they probably spent their free time reading Moliere, and discussing Art, and whether Shakespeare's 47th Sonnet followed a rhyme scheme common in its day or broke new ground, or something like that.

  The small, heavy door swung open noiselessly to reveal a miniature cupboard. It was well stocked with glasses, bottles of liquor, and exotic snacks like honey-roasted almonds. "There's a nice little one in here," Sherry was saying. "But it's really not at its best without Boursin, is it?"
r />   "Absolutely not," Marylou said. Her eyes were glittering. She turned to Stoner. "This is what we need in the new office." She indicated a refrigerator under the mail cubby holes. "Look, Stoner."

  Sherry wheeled around. "Stoner McTavish?" She held out her hand. "I'm so sorry. I should have recognized you right away."

  Stoner wondered what there was about herself that should have been immediately recognizable. Her clothing? Intensity? Was there a problem-solving sort of air about her? She felt Gwen nudge her and took Sherry's hand for a shake. "Nice to meet you," she said.

  She hadn't expected the woman's handshake to be so firm and steady. She seemed like the grasp-and-let-go type. Or the keep-a-pocket-of-air-between-your-palm-and-mine type. Or even the limp fish type. But Sherry Dodder's handshake was... well, frankly, butch. "And this is Gwen Owens," she said quickly, out of politeness and eager to cover her confusion. "And my business partner, Marylou Kesselbaum."

  Marylou pulled a business card out of her string purse. "Kesselbaum and McTavish, Travel Agents. We make travel almost as much fun as staying home."

  The woman took the card and laughed. "That's wonderful. And you must be the Senior partner."

  Stoner looked at Marylou. ''You must?"

  "The order of the names," Marylou explained patiently. "Actually, we're equal partners. We chose the order because it was more rhythmic that way."

  "I see," Sherry said. She looked back to Stoner. "Stoner. An unusual name."

  "I was named for Lucy B. Stone," Stoner said.

  "Oh, I envy you. I think I was named for an alcoholic drink." She turned to Gwen. "Gwen Owens, was it?"

  "Yes," Gwen said. Stoner thought she sensed a bit of electricity in the air around her.

  "That's an English name?"

  "Welsh." Yes, definitely electricity, and more than a bit of it. Gwen was annoyed, with anger rising.

  "I'm very sorry," Sherry said, and seemed to mean it. "That was really awkward of me. Nasty business, that whole England-Wales thing. Remind me not to toast the Queen at dinner." She gave a hearty laugh. "Just kidding."

  Gwen presented her with a tight-lipped, insincere smile.

  Sherry didn't notice. She poured a bit of wine into a thin-stemmed glass and handed it to Marylou.

  Marylou tasted it and sighed with delight. "Perfect. Exactly the right temperature." She perched on the edge of a straight-backed, horsehair-stuffed chair. "Cheers."

  "I can't tell you how relieved I am that you could make it," Sherry said. "I've been half out of my mind with worry."

  "I'm so sorry," Gwen said, her voice dripping ice.

  Stoner gave her hand a warning squeeze. "Have you had other incidents?" she asked.

  "Nothing I can put my finger on. The usual theater crises, of course. Yesterday there was a bench that had been painted. The day before, we thought. But when our lead actor sat on it, it was fresh. Her clothes were ruined. No one would own up to having done it." She shrugged. "Minor things like that. Not dangerous, but annoying and time-consuming. We're already three days behind schedule."

  "How long have you been doing this?"

  "This is my first year as producer," Sherry said. "That's because we rotate, so every woman gets a chance to learn and share."

  "And last year you did...?"

  Sherry looked down at the floor as if shy. "Well, I don't like to brag, but I had the lead."

  "Don't you miss the attention?" Gwen asked.

  "Good Heavens, no!" Sherry exclaimed with a little laugh. "It's a tremendous amount of responsibility."

  "So is producing," Stoner pointed out.

  "But the mistakes you make aren't made in front of an audience. Besides, it's not so different from running The Cottage. Organizing, dealing with details and people. It comes more naturally to me."

  "Yes," Gwen said, "I can see where that might be the case."

  What was going on here? "Are you okay?" Stoner mumbled to Gwen.

  Gwen seemed startled. "Sure."

  "Probably tired from the trip up," Marylou said, eaves-dropping. "It was endless." She held out her empty glass. "May I have just a touch more wine?" she asked. "To fortify me for the drive back."

  Sherry refilled her glass eagerly.

  "Marylou doesn't like to travel," Stoner explained. "It takes a lot out of her."

  “Would you like to spend the night?" Sherry asked with a concerned knitting of the eyebrows. “We have plenty of room."

  "Thank you, no," Marylou said. "My mother's picking me up. She's doing a workshop over in Bangor."

  "Dr. Kesselbaum's a psychiatrist," Stoner said.

  “Well," said Sherry, "I'll certainly have to watch what I say around her."

  "Just don't tell her any of your dreams," Marylou warned. "Two sentences of dream fragment and she knows your entire life history."

  "Of course she knows yours," Gwen said. "She's your mother."

  "So you can imagine how precise she can get," Marylou said with a roll of her eyes.

  "Are there other guests here, besides the theater women?" Stoner asked. "If not, we're going to be conspicuous..."

  "Not to worry," Sherry said perkily. "On the third floor we have a young couple. They just went through a commitment ceremony, so I don't imagine we'll see much of them. Also a group of five from Dyke Hike."

  "Dyke Hike?"

  "A backpacking and mountaineering support group. Sort of like an outing club. Though I suppose nowadays 'Outing Club' could have very different connotations."

  Even Gwen had to laugh.

  "If they're here to backpack, I don't suppose we'll see much of them, either," Stoner said.

  ''You'll see them," Sherry said. "They come here every year to plan the next year's schedule of events. Sort of like a retreat." She turned to the registration book. "I've put you in room 214, on the second floor. Most of the theater women are on that floor, so you'll get to observe them without arousing suspicion. We have a few rooms on the first floor, but they're reserved for our elderly and disabled guests." She smiled apologetically. ''I'm afraid we're not politically correct, no elevator. But I plan to renovate next year and bring The Cottage up to A.D.A. standards. I just hope it won't disturb any of the sleeping ghosts."

  "Ghosts?" Stoner asked. "Is The Cottage haunted?"

  "Not as far as I know. Nothing there to hang a reputation on. But these old places..."

  "Stoner likes ghosts," Marylou said. "Her aunt's a medium."

  "She's not a medium, Marylou, she's a clairvoyant. And I don't like ghosts, they make me uneasy. And I wish you'd call them 'spirits,' not 'ghosts.' It's more... more... "

  "Politically correct?" Marylou suggested.

  "Dignified. Respectful."

  “Well, I don't think we have any," Sherry said.

  Stoner hesitated. She hated to bring up anything as crass as money, but there was a worry she had to get off her chest. "Look," she said, "I really appreciate you offering to let us stay free, but... well, isn't that cutting into your income, giving up a room like that, to say nothing of the meals..."

  Sherry laughed. "No problemo, my dears. As you can gather, the Cottage isn't even filled, so you'd hardly be displacing a paying guest. I make the majority of my profit during the winter. We're close to a number of downhill areas, and we have cross-country right here. I open the inn to families then." She gave them a conspiratorial wink. "You might say I let the hets subsidize the women's community. A nice irony, don't you think?"

  "Very nice," Gwen murmured.

  "And the theater pays me a bit—not enough to cover expenses, really more like an honorarium. I suppose that means the Patriarchy is subsidizing alternative art. Jessie Helms would be beside himself."

  Stoner had to laugh. "Tell me about the theater group," she said.

  "It's called Demeter Ascending, a Women's Theater of Affirmation and Empowerment."

  "Catchy title," Marylou said.

  "That's the name of the group. The play's Not Quite Titled."

  "Well," Marylou
said, "I don't know much about theater, but I do know you have to start your publicity early. And you're already into rehearsal. Don't you think you should have a title by now?"

  "That is the title 'Not Quite Titled, an original sophisticated satirical Feminist musical comedy in the tradition of Noel Coward.'''

  "I see," Stoner said. Noel Coward? They were looking to a man for their inspiration? A talented and funny one, and reputed to verge on gay, not exactly Normal Mailer... but a man?

  "It's being written collectively," Sherry said. "We've been working on it since last year."

  Stoner nodded sympathetically. "I know how grueling that can be." Support groups, self-help groups, even twelve-step programs had broken up over less.

  "But loads of fun," Sherry said. "We're in hysterics half the time. Who said Feminism has no sense of humor?"

  "Not me," Marylou offered. "I never said that. Did you ever hear me say that, Stoner?"

  "Only when you lost the local N.O.W. chapter election."

  Somewhere in the back of the Inn a screen door slammed. "Uh-oh," Sherry said, looking around and dropping her voice. "We have company." She handed Stoner the quill pen and indicated the register. "If you'll just sign in, Stoner and Gwen, I'll show you to your room," she announced loudly. “We have a women's theater company staying here. If you like, I'll see if you can sit in on a rehearsal."

  "That would be nice." Stoner handed her back the pen and mouthed "Good thinking."

  "I don't think anyone will bother you," she went on as Gwen signed in. "Now and then things get a little boisterous, at the end of the day. Theater is such demanding, disciplined work that we need to let off a little steam..."

  "Endorphins," Marylou said in an explanatory way.

  "But we generally do our partying in the barn."

  "Very wise," Marylou approved.

  Sherry turned to her. "By the way, you're welcome to stay for dinner if you like."

  "Thank you, but it depends on when my mother gets here."

  "If it's awkward for you," Stoner said eagerly, watching Marylou's hand creep toward the menu that lay beneath the register on the little writing table, "Marylou can have my place. I'm not at all hungry. Seldom am. It's just how I am.”