4
When a woman whom we love has died, it is difficult in the first interval after interment not to dwell on her lonely putrescence right there underground; but there comes a time when the bond of empathy, like the corpse itself, withers away, and we withdraw our thoughts from the beetle-jeweled skeleton in the box. Likewise, when a woman whom we love has left us, for some days and weeks as we live beside the silent phone we think on her thinking of us, defined, unlike us in our desperation, by pity, disgust, anxious avoidance, or some other feeling equally alien to the former affection, her attachment to us rotting away more rapidly than ours to her, although ours must eventually undergo a kindred process, until there comes the relief of dissolution. It is an ugly time, the time of sending out thoughtwaves to meet decay. And through this time the resistless girl was now carried.
The rest of us, brutally healthy, evacuate our hearts’ dead stuff, retaining bitterness or woodenness. Karen was different.
5
After E-beth ended the relationship, the lesbian began yearning for a place where only women lived, loving each other equally without jealousy. (Judy Garland for her part had told Movieland: I’d like to have been part of that life where all women were glamorous, all men romantic, everything was exciting, and no one was ever dull or lonely or sad.) But of course there had never been anywhere like that, not even E-beth’s candle-lit bedroom back when Karen still excited her. Had there been such a place, it might have lain in Oaxaca, Hiva Oa or eastern China. But once she had proved her obedience by no longer calling E-beth’s cell phone over and over, the other woman suddenly out of pity sent her the address, which referred to an island in the Northwest. The retired policeman, who as you will presently read voyaged there with the transwoman for a detective-style honeymoon vacation, found nothing where my story posits something; well schooled by his broken-spined old true crime paperbacks, he reminded me that everyone lies, so that Karen Strand, alias Neva, was living a lie, therefore, what the fuck should I expect? Because I failed to hide my belief in the lesbian’s story, he laid more of his wisdom on my shoulders. Once upon a time, which is to say nineteen years before he retired, he was out on patrol when the dispatcher radioed a low-urgency call concerning a certain schizophrenic all too well known to the department as a result of entering trouble on his fourteenth birthday, which was when he forced his twelve-year-old sister, or by his account allowed her, to give him a blow job; and here the retired policeman inserted: Never worked a day in his goddamned life; supported by his parents; preying on God knows how many young girls; somebody should have shot him in the ear!—When he threatened his parents, the father called the police, telling them only that he was sick. The retired policeman and his partner, knowing him for violent, ascended in a combat-ready state of mind, which turned out to be warranted, because the young man stood there threatening them with a shovel. They advised him to drop it, but he construed their guidance as intimidation, so the conversation speedily became an argument, which agitated him to the point of snapping off the shovelhead, letting that clang down the concrete stairs while he stood cursing, weeping and gripping the handle, which could have accomplished gross bodily harm; and to save us all from any such eventuality the retired policeman loomed before him while the other officer went behind, after which something off the record but surely discreditable to the subject took place, resulting in the discharge of a pistol into the crown of the suspect’s head; he would live but was never going to be pretty; the rearmost officer deposed he had to fire in order to protect his partner, the retired policeman, who told me: Yeah, I’m grateful.—The mother, so he heard, came to the lawyer’s office in a low-cut outfit; she was as beautiful as a model. Her house was filled with garbage. What the parents actually expected to get in their lawsuit was unclear; if they won anything, it would only be transferred from one line item of the state budget, public security, to another, indigent medical care. Once the lawyer spread his empty hands, the mother tracked down the retired policeman at home, her proposal being that if he perjured himself and denounced his partner she would split the settlement fifty-fifty (plus or minus fifty, of course), and she would also take him to bed. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, enjoying her figure, her desperation and most of all her lies—why, she was sicker than that fucking schizo son of hers! The way she spun it, she and he would live happily ever after. The husband was a detail; she’d get rid of him. Maybe she even believed it. She asked to come in, just to give him a taste. Sure he wanted her . . . !—All fucking lies, he repeated, belching in my ear.
6
In her island fable, the lesbian travelled first by train and bus, then ferry, finally by trail, descending root-stairs through the luxurious gloom whose evergreen wind smelled ever more of the sea; and there the ancient lady, sitting down slowly, took her sweaty young hands, looked her carefully in the face and asked why she was so sad.
The girl answered, resting her chin in her left hand, telling the story in a slow voice, as if she herself were old.
Leaning forward, opening her long weaver’s fingers, the old lady said: If somebody calls me and needs me, I always try to come. But we sure could use more of our members. And, dearie, you should . . .
The lesbian did not comprehend. The old woman said: And when I come to anyone, you know how I travel? On my broomstick! That’s our joke around here, because we . . . But most of the time what’s said is not what’s most important. What’s your name?
Karen.
What a pretty name. But you’re not going to keep it. You won’t want it once we break it.
The old woman waited awhile, then remarked: But not all people like to talk; they don’t . . . necessarily . . . like to . . .—Do you mean to join?
Staring into that frail, trembling face with the deep-sunk dark eyes, which seemed to see from out of their skull into any other woman’s, the lesbian nodded desperately.
7
The old woman wore bluejeans and a sweater. She had knitted the beret she wore. Gesturing toward a wall hanging, she said: And then the lady who gave us this, I don’t really know the full story about her. I think she was associated with some school in Oklahoma. After she joined, she started her own thing down there. You know, spread the love. Sometimes they remember us. Well, they’ve been real generous, and they’re gracious. Do you understand?
No, ma’am.
And if you’d been here last—last month, I should say . . . we—everyone got a big kick out of it, and that little nymph . . .
A young woman had been standing in the darkness behind her. Presently she came out. She knelt down, gazing at the girl. And the wise one rested her wrinkled old hand on the shoulder of this darkhaired young Jewish lesbian in the cableknit sweater whose sleeves were far too wide for her slender white wrists. Slowly the Jewish woman leaned back, closed her eyes, and rested her head on the old lady’s breast. Then she went away, to stir the dyepot.
The girl hesitated. Then she, too, knelt down.
That’s right, honey; that’s the way to . . . That’s what E-beth did, when she first . . . Now give me a little kiss.
The old woman knew exactly what to do with her wrinkled hand and her tired grey tongue. Before she knew what she was about, the lesbian was screaming in ecstasy. Afterward, she knelt down and gratified the old woman. You see, she had had plenty of practice. That was how she joined the organization.
Now tell me more. So E-beth broke another heart, did she? Oh, dear. Well, from what you’re telling me, dearie, there’s only one way to go forward. Open your legs again; that’s a good girl. Let me . . . That’s right. Now I’m going to listen to your heart. Yes. Yes, I’m afraid you do have the power. Oh, my. My poor dear girl. Kiss my breast. Yes, that’s how it is. Here’s a blanket. Find yourself somewhere among those trees. No eating, and try not to sleep much. Come back tomorrow morning.
She returned at sunrise, and the old lady, who seemed as if her face had
become sandstone and then someone had attacked it with hammers, said: Sweetie, I’m not going to cure you. I wouldn’t if I could. I’m going to make it worse. Do you accept?
Slowly the girl said: If it gets worse . . .
No, you won’t do that yet. Someday you may. Now, Karen, it’s better if you don’t ask why. Are you ready to get hurt without knowing why?
Yes, the girl said.
The old woman smiled and said: Dearie, I’m so proud of you. Now come in and have tea.
Too numb to feel afraid, the girl went in and sat on a low stool while her hostess put the kettle on. Sometimes she hoped that this magic would kill her, or bring back E-beth. The darkhaired Jewish lesbian came in, stroked her hair and said: Karen, I love you.
The girl did not know how to reply. The Jewish woman embraced her, then walked out onto the ocean path.
What did your mother do to you? Tell me everything.
The old woman listened without turning around. She nodded. She said: Then that’s exactly what I’ll do to you.
Now the kettle was boiling, and the old woman poured it into a single cup. Smelling the steeping of unknown herbs, the girl felt dizzy. At last the old woman faced her. She lowered the cup. She said: Drink it down. Good. That’s right. Is it all gone? Right. Soon you’ll need to vomit, but you’re an expert at that. Now give yourself to me. Say it now. Say that you give yourself.
I give myself, to . . .
For my full use . . .
For your full use . . .
To be disposed of in any way, even unto death. Say it, Karen.
The gulls were calling, and the girl said: . . . Even unto death. Now I feel sick—
All right, honey. Be brave.
The first time she vomited was not painful, although her ears rang. The old woman held a bucket for her. She allowed her to rinse out her mouth, then made her drink more tea. All day and night the old woman kept leading her slowly and expertly into desolation, gripping her face and breathing into it a breath that grew ever fouler. By sunrise the girl hardly knew what and where she was. Again the young Jewish woman came behind her and briefly held her, then departed. And in the morning the old woman’s tranquilly enormous face grew and grew, shining down on her.—Drink water, she said. The girl swayed in the chair. Again came those same ancient pains, but what the old woman did to her was or became somehow more abstract or schematic in its inflicted sensation.
Sleep in the corner, said her hostess, and before she knew it, three women she had never seen before were slapping her awake. They appeared to be sorry for her. A different tea, very black and bitter, was brought to her by someone who might have been the Jewish woman; whenever Karen closed her eyes, women slapped her, and then beautiful sparks made circles in the air. She began to feel warm all over and her heart was striking painfully, as if she were afraid again.
The old woman, who had not yet slapped her, said: Karen, today I want you to suffer as much as possible. Do you want to suffer?
No.
What if I told you that if you didn’t want to, I wouldn’t love you anymore?
You said you’d always love me.
I’m turning away from you. How does it feel?
No, don’t—
Then if you can do a little something for me, a very little something, you’ll have me back again. Do you see this needle? Take it and prick it all the way into your tongue. Then I’ll make something out of you.
Things were done to increase her smothering anguish bit by bit, as if someone were treading on her breastbone. The girl kept weeping and vomiting until she could barely breathe. She thought they were burning her, but later there would be no scars. And then they kept making her climax, which felt worse than anything. How many of them were there? They gave her broth to drink, and led her to the toilet. And she slept, but not enough. Again they were slapping her; then came very familiar sexual things.
The old lesbian treated her with the steady thoroughness of the nurse who as she examines the raped woman explains to her what she is finding: a rectal tear, two bruises where the violator’s hands have gripped, foreign pubic hairs, a crust that tests positive for semen—so that the woman understands what is now being done to her and what was done while she was in shock or unconscious. But for a long time Karen did not understand, because there came no explanation in words. With slappings, lickings, chokings, pinchings, beatings and penetrations they made love out of nothing—or, if you like, but two memories only: of E-beth and, well, yes, of her mother; because love can be taught, and her mother was her first teacher. (To remember love is to create and recreate it.)
I who was not there propose that by exercising her in acts of love, the old lesbian meant to free her from what her previous two possessors had done to her. But no such acts would have freed me. So perhaps what the old lady intended was that the girl would be a chosen instrument of hers to carry her love before woman and man; the preparation began with showing her how much she must suffer for the sake of what would now be put on her.
Now you need to thank me, said the old lady.
Thank you.
Again.
Thank you—
Did anybody ever spit on you before?
Yes . . . Four girls . . .
Who else?
I don’t know. Sometimes more, and once there was a boy . . .
Then all thirteen of us will spit in your face, and you’re to thank us. Say thank you.
Thank you.
Say you’re a bitch, a stinking little bitch.
I’m a stinking little bitch.
Good girl. Dearie, I love you so much. Now say you’re a goddess.
I’m a . . .
Go on. We’re making you into a goddess.
I’m a bitch.
Good girl. We’ll beat you some more. Now open your mouth. That’s right; that’s right. Hate yourself so we can love you.
It continued until she could begin to feel those things without distaste, and then, presently, to feel them in her own way, down within a certain darkness far deeper than not believing in herself. And the old lady cut away from her the things which should be cut from her, Karen’s self dissolving like a cedar cone half gone in the moss of that tree’s own root.
One morning the girl, who had been starved, penetrated and injured until she repeatedly soiled herself, opened her eyes to ask: Am I a bad person?
No.
Why has my life been so sad?
You never deserved it, but now you need to live it.
She was in her mother’s house, that low dark place where all that she could see was the past.
Be patient, honey, said the old woman, recommencing to slap and beat her.
8
Honey, who are you doing this for?
I don’t know. For you.
Who else?
For them.
Who are they?
All of you . . . I don’t know—
Why not for you?
When I do it for them, I’m doing it for me.
Because it makes you feel good?
I don’t know.
Dearie, I don’t know, either. Maybe every generation has things visited upon them by their parents. I certainly had things visited on me.
But what those things were the old lesbian kept to herself, because this was Karen’s time. So the women of the island kept ripping open and raping the wound that her mother had inflicted, as if out of ritual cruelty, but in fact to teach her that whatever she could not cure in herself she must enlarge.
I need more blood, said the old woman, and the young Jewish lesbian asked: Karen, do you feel the changing?
I feel anxious, because everyone’s looking at me. Please . . .
They are, said the old woman. That’s what the power does. Now bend over and close your eyes. This won’t be bad. Tha
t’s right; there it goes. Hold still. Breathe in. Hold still. That’s done. Dearie, you’re the bravest! Now turn over. Don’t open your eyes. This will hurt, not too much but for a long, long time. I’m going to put a mark on you between your breasts. It’s not the devil’s; it’s the women’s mark, and most women won’t be able to see it. Hold tight. Hold my hand.
After a long time the old lesbian censed her, then said: Grant what no woman has seen and what has not entered into any woman’s heart. Murmuring and whispering secret things with many examples, she rocked the girl in her arms, simultaneously teaching and comforting her. She said: Because your mother loves you . . . ! You were born to be loved. Honey, you’re the most loveable person in the world.
9
When the old lady had done away the offensive thing which had been on the girl, when she had entirely removed the pain that was in her, replacing it with a brighter deeper one, she bathed her and fed her. It was dawn. They lay down in the moss together.
She said: I was kind of a tomboy, dearie; I didn’t like to dress up, and my Daddy said, you want to grow up to be a lady like your Aunt Ethel, and I said, I’d really rather not.
The lesbian was almost asleep.
The old lady said: I think I first heard about sex from my Cousin Sadie. She said, oh, I didn’t know where babies comes from, but a guy has these worms and they crawl outside of him when they hatch inside of you. No, dearie, just close your eyes. What I did to you is all done. We’re all proud of you. And nobody will call you Karen anymore. But, dearie, you’re always going to be alone. Just rest, honey. I’m talking you to sleep, because I love you. When you wake up we’ll all play. You haven’t played enough. In my time I played mostly with boys. I was kind of one of those boys. I was flat-chested, and then when everybody started developing, my girlfriend and I stood in front of the mirror raising and lowering our arms to see who had the biggest tits. It was very concerning to me to see that everybody else was more developed. And then my best friend and I became lesbians. You still awake? Go to sleep, dearie. And I didn’t get my period until between my freshman and sophomore year, and there was this guy who was really interested in me and would take me out in a sailboat, and I fell down the steps and got my period, and I said, oh, shit, I think I’m bleeding internally, and my girlfriend said, oh you’re not, you idiot. And my mother said you’d better go to bed and put your feet up. My mother didn’t want to talk sex really. I wanted to talk about masturbation and she wouldn’t. Later she said, of course we did it but we never talked about it. I said, oh, I thought there was something wrong with me. What is this thing about sex anyway? Why should it be controlled? Well, honey, you’ll never get away from it now. Yes, that’s how it is. Some will love you as jealous lovers, and some like children, you see, unconditionally but without knowledge, and some like sinners hoping to hide inside you, and some to justify themselves over others, saying Neva loves me but not you. Neva’s going to be your name. I’ll tell you again when you wake up. And you’re going to love them all the same, but the ones who will love you as broken things are the ones like you. Well, now you’ve joined and we’re all proud.
The Lucky Star Page 8
