Bad Company Page 4

  "Oh, you are not,” Marylou said. Her fingers touched the menu. "You're afraid there'll be things you can't pronounce. You hate food you can't pronounce."

  "Well," said Sherry with a smile, "I'm sure you'll find the food here very pronounceable." Gwen handed her the pen. "That should do it. You're in room 214. Follow me."

  As Sherry turned to lead them away, Marylou snatched the menu and slipped it beneath her voluminous duster.

  "So," Marylou said as she lounged on one of the two single beds with the pineapple bedposts and perused her purloined menu, "what's your opinion?"

  "It seems nice enough,” Stoner said. She looked around the room, and tried to get a sense of it. The floor was polished wood, its hardness broken by a large braided rug. The rug was old, bits of straw or horse hair or something poking through. Single beds with white candle wick spreads... she really didn't like single beds. They'd mastered the art of making love in them without falling out. But single beds made cuddling awkward and uncomfortable.

  "I was referring to your hostess."

  Stoner shrugged and held two pairs of socks up to the light. Inspired by Gwen, Goddess of Impeccable Packing, she had vowed to be neater and more organized, and was arranging her socks in the drawer in descending order of brightness. It wasn't easy, as most of her socks were black or navy blue. "I guess she's okay. Hard to tell after only fifteen minutes."

  "Not for Gwen," Marylou said. "She made up her mind in ten seconds."

  "I don't like her,” Gwen muttered. She slammed a handful of underwear into a drawer and attacked a shirt with a hanger.

  "Clearly," Marylou said.

  "That business with the wine, Lucy B. Stone, the Welsh-English thing. The woman panders."

  "Of course she panders. She's in business. In business, you pander. These are the 'nineties.'''

  ''I'll bet Stoner doesn't."

  "Stoner can't pull it off. That's why she gets to track down the lost luggage and reconfirm cruise reservations. It doesn't require pandering."

  "It does, too," Stoner said, not wanting to be thought deficient. ''I'm so good at it you never notice."

  Gwen jammed the shirt and hanger into the closet and brutalized another. "Well, I hate it. It's so... so..."

  "American?" Marylou suggested.

  "Sleazy."

  "I suppose. But hardly up there with drug dealing. Why does it annoy you so much?"

  "It's dishonest," Gwen said. She took aim at another shirt. "Manipulative."

  “Manipulation,” said Marylou, "is also American."

  "You don't mind because it was you she was pandering to," Gwen snapped.

  “Actually,” Marylou said calmly, "I think she pandered to all of us equally."

  Gwen shoveled the rest of her underwear into a drawer and grabbed her empty suitcase and stalked into the closet. "I don't like her, and I don't have to like her if I don't like her."

  "Of course you don't," Stoner said. She looked around for a place to put her books and note pad and camera and pens and all the other things she never used back in civilization but was sure she'd be miserable without. The only writing table was nearly covered by a large antique pitcher and basin. "I'm only doing a job for her, I'm not bringing her home."

  "Thank God for small favors."

  "If you don't mind my saying so," Marylou opined, "you're over reacting just the teeniest bit."

  There was only silence from the closet.

  Stoner found herself in the strange position of agreeing with Marylou. Gwen was over reacting, and in a very un-Gwen-like way. Gwen was usually the one who trusted and liked people on sight, whether she had any reason to or not. In fact, it usually took a considerable amount of concerted effort to arouse Gwen's dislike or suspicion. It had gotten her into serious trouble on more than one occasion.

  "Gwen?" Stoner dropped her arm load of personal articles onto the bed Marylou hadn't commandeered. She went to the closet entrance. "Is something wrong?"

  "Fine. Everything's just fine," Gwen replied in a tone of voice that said it clearly wasn't fine at all.

  "Come on, what's wrong?"

  "It's just such fun," Gwen said, "being the only person who sees what everyone else doesn't."

  "I know," Stoner said, having been in that position herself. "Look, maybe you're right. Maybe something's uniquely wrong with Sherry. It's not a big deal."

  "If it's not a big deal, why is Marylou harping on it?"

  ''You're both harping on it."

  "I'm harping worse than Gwen's harping," Marylou offered as she snatched Stoner's pen and made a note in the margin of the menu. "I don't know why."

  "Well, I wish you'd both stop," Stoner said. "This is an uncomfortable enough place. I count on the two of you to keep me sane in places like this. So if you don't mind..."

  Gwen peered out of the closet. Marylou looked at her. They both looked at Stoner.

  "I'm sorry," Gwen said, and touched her arm. "I don't know what got into me."

  "Neither do I," said Marylou. "Maybe the place is haunted. Evil spirits lurking about, giving off negative vibrations, causing dissonance among friends, the whole spooky bit."

  Stoner tried to open herself to the subtle vibrations in the room. She couldn't pick up anything. "I don't feel it." Not that that meant anything. She really wasn't good at sensing unseen energies—other than those emanating from people in bad moods. She was very, very good at sensing those. But Aunt Hermione assured her she could develop the skill if she practiced and believed. "Nothing," she said, trying to believe.

  "Doesn't surprise me," Marylou said. “With a menu like this, there can't be anything wrong with the place." She thought for a moment. "Unless the cooking is terrible, in which case this menu is a cruel hoax and I shall personally see to it that no one ever comes here again."

  "I'm sure the food is fine," Stoner said. She wandered over to the window. Beyond the ivory lace curtains, she could see across the circular drive and carefully mowed lawn to the woods. They were deep hemlock woods. The lower branches of the trees had been pruned and removed, giving a clear view of the forest floor, softly carpeted by pine needles. A rough barn stood at the edge of the sloping lawn. Through the trees, a lake glinted in the distance. If things got too awful, she could go over there and smell the trees and earth, and touch the water, and cleanse her soul of history and formality.

  As she watched, a large, long, very white Lincoln Continental convertible pulled into the drive and circled the sundial. Its tires crunched luxuriously over the gravel. It stopped, the motor purred to silence, and a tall, wiry woman in gauzy slacks and blouse floated from the driver's seat like a cloud. Stoner raised the screen and leaned out. "Hi, Edith!"

  The woman shaded her eyes with one hand and squinted in her direction near-sightedly. "Stoner, dear. Is my next-of-kin with you?"

  Behind her, Marylou sighed heavily.

  "She's here," Stoner called. "Can you stay for dinner?"

  Edith slipped her gauzy scarf from around her neck. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be good company. The workshop was dreadful, and I'm in a foul mood. I can't think of anything but Burger King."

  Marylou let out a soft, sobbing groan.

  “What was the problem?" Stoner asked.

  "They were silent. Utterly silent. The entire Mental Health Department of Maine is suffering from collective verbal constipation."

  "For God's sake," Marylou whispered, "tell her to be quiet. She'll disgrace us in front of everyone."

  "Don't be silly," Stoner said. She knew it was immature and probably neurotic and nasty of her, but she couldn't resist enjoying the sight of Marylou—whom she loved with all her heart, but who constantly made her want to crawl down a hole and pull it in after her with embarrassment—discomposed herself. "Nobody's going to judge you by your mother's behavior."

  "They are."

  "Are not," Gwen said. She came to stand beside Stoner and gave a wave. "Hey, Edith."

  "Hey, yourself, Miss Jefferson, Georgia." Edith ran both hands
through her hair. A soft breeze caught her scarf and set it fluttering. "Long time no see.”

  "Too long," Gwen said.

  "Is Marylou coming?"

  Stoner glanced around. Marylou had covered her head with a pillow.

  "In a minute," Gwen said.

  "Come on," Stoner said, going to the bed and shaking Marylou by the shoulder.

  "I don't want to go to Burger King," Marylou whimpered.

  "Maryloooo .. ." Edith's voice floated on the late afternoon quiet.

  Marylou grabbed Stoner's sleeve. "Don't make me go, please, I'll do anything you want, forever. Just don't make me go to Burger King."

  Stoner laughed. ''You know you can't get out of it. Once her mind's made up..."

  "Marylou! Please hustle your butt! I'm hallucinating a Whopper!”

  That did it. Marylou jumped from the bed, grabbed her duster, and scurried from the room.

  "She's on the way,” Gwen called down.

  Edith Kesselbaum grinned. "I can always get what I want from her;” she said, "by quoting junk food menus in public."

  "I'll remember that," Gwen said.

  Downstairs, a screen door slammed. Marylou emerged at a flat-out run and hurled herself into the Lincoln's passenger seat.

  "Have a nice vacation," Edith called.

  “Will do," Stoner said.

  "Y'all come back and see us real soon," Gwen shouted. “We'll go to Dairy Queen for Brazier Burgers."

  Marylou ducked down into the leg well under the dash.

  With a brisk wave of her arm, Edith climbed in, slammed the car into gear and negotiated the circular drive on two wheels.

  ''You know," Gwen said, slipping her arm around Stoner's waist, "it's hard to imagine Edith as your therapist."

  "It was pretty scary at times," Stoner agreed. "But she kept me alive. She made life seem manageable."

  "Edith doesn't manage life," Gwen said with a smile. "She browbeats it. It's a skill we should all cultivate."

  Stoner leaned her face against Gwen's hair. It was soft and smooth and smelled of salt and freshly cut grass. Unconsciously, her hand found Gwen's, a gesture that had become as much a part of her life as breathing. She felt the warmth of her. "I wish we didn't have to leave the room," she said.

  Gwen nuzzled closer to her. "Is that lust, or fear of the social life?"

  "A little of both, I guess. Do you mind?"

  "Don't be silly," Gwen said. She was silent for a moment, looking out over the lawn. Late afternoon sun made long shadows of the sun dial and concrete urns filled with petunias. "Let's find out."

  "It's this place," Stoner explained over dinner. "I couldn't get my mother off my mind."

  Gwen nodded sympathetically. "I know what you mean."

  Stoner glanced up at her. ''You didn't seem to be having any trouble."

  "Just because it's such a Yankee Magazine kind of place. If it had anything Southern about it, you'd have seen trouble."

  "I'm sorry, anyway."

  “Will you please stop apologizing?" Gwen said. "Life is long and that was one hour of it."

  "You know I love you."

  "Of course I know. And sex isn't the Olympic Games of love. Now can we order?"

  Stoner ran her hand through her hair. "I don't know what to order."

  "Use the menu Marylou left for you. She marked everything you'd like."

  "She marked escargot. I can't eat snails. They live under rotten boards. People trap them in gardens. They drown them in saucers of beer. In the dark."

  Gwen took the menu from her and looked at it. "She didn't mark the escargot, Stoner. She marked the item beneath it." She handed it back.

  "Oh," Stoner said sheepishly. "Broiled swordfish with garlic and lemon sauce. I can eat that. I think."

  "Thank God," Gwen sighed. She motioned to the waitress and ordered. "This place really does give you the heebie-jeebies, doesn't it?" she asked when the young woman had withdrawn.

  "Really."

  "Know what I think? I think you had a very nasty childhood."

  "No worse than yours. Not as bad. My father didn't beat up on me."

  "That's true," Gwen said. "But I didn't live in a constant atmosphere of disapproval. Besides, I didn't have to go through adolescence with them."

  ''Yeah. You got to do that with a homophobic grandmother."

  "She wasn't homophobic then."

  "She didn't know you were a lesbian then."

  Gwen laughed. "Neither did I, so it didn't make much difference." She pressed her finger into the bowl of a spoon, her thumb into the end of the handle, and lifted the spoon from the table. "Bet you can't do that."

  "I'd just drop it on the floor and attract attention."

  "You know what?" Gwen said as she peered at the spoon. "This is sterling silver. Not stainless steel, not silver plate. Sterling silver."

  "Goes with the linen napkins and tablecloths, I guess."

  "The rose buds are real, too." Gwen put the spoon down. "This is one fancy place, all right. I'm glad Sherry's paying our expenses."

  "Doesn't seem right," Stoner said. "She's losing money."

  Gwen shrugged. "Guess she can afford it. Anyway, the place isn't completely booked. It's not as if we're replacing paying guests."

  Only half the tables in the dining room were taken. Two substantial, gray-haired women, one in a wheel chair, sat touching fingers by the windows that looked out on the lowering sun. Now and then they glanced at the flock of robins feeding on the lawn. Most of the time they gazed at each other as if in utter amazement and wonder at being together.

  "Imagine what their lives were like growing up," Gwen said. "They must feel as if they've landed on another planet."

  The Dyke Hike group—ruddy, rugged, and boisterous—had captured the table nearest the lobby. Five women in identical short khaki shorts, thick socks, heavy boots, plaid camp shirts, and deeply tanned, unshaven legs. They were drinking red wine and shrieking over a near-accident involving sheer granite rock. Clearly, the organizers had stolen a few hours from organizing and program planning to have a bit of adventure. They didn't seem to be at all intimidated by the furniture or silverware.

  Dinner arrived.

  "Has it occurred to you," Gwen asked as she lifted a fork full of Brook Trout Meunire,"... this is excellent, by the way. Want a taste?"

  Stoner shook her head. It was one of those Trout things, cooked complete with head or tail. She'd never been able to eat meat that looked like what it really was.

  Gwen took another bite. "We don't really know what we're getting ourselves into, do we? She said there'd been 'mysterious accidents,' or 'suspicious happenings,' or something. That could cover a pretty wide range of things."

  "'Unexplained accidents and injuries' was the way she put it," Stoner said. Her sword fish was tender and tasty and didn't look like what it was.

  "Which could mean anything from skinned knees to attempted murder."

  "She probably would have mentioned attempted murder." She tried the salad. It was light, crisp, and delicately flavored with dressing. The rolls were freshly made, warm and yeasty. "She runs a good kitchen."

  "'Unexplained accidents' could mean poisoning." Gwen scooped up a bite of Lyonnaise potatoes. "Food poisoning."

  The French doors were open. From outside came the evening liquid chirp of robins. A power mower clattered in the distance. A screen door slammed.

  "It's not like you," Gwen said. "You're usually so thorough. You'd want to know all the ins and outs of a thing before you took it on."

  "I know." She had to admit it, she was a little puzzled by her own behavior. As Aunt Hermione would say, it just wasn't a Capricorn kind of thing to do. But this was a lesbian sister asking for her help. So what if she'd never met her? When a sister needs you, you help, simple.

  Stoner couldn't keep from smiling at herself, a little wryly. Twelve years ago, when she was young and idealistic, every woman she knew thought that way. The pre-Reagan years, the years of Sisterhood and a br
ave new Women's World. Before the backlash and the burn out. Before the world moved on.

  Like the rest of her generation, Stoner had learned—with a fair amount of pain—that being women didn't mean you'd exchanged penises for haloes. The trouble was, she kept forgetting it.

  ''You have that look," Gwen said gently.

  "Look?"

  "That Remembering the Women's Movement look, kind of sad and disillusioned."

  "I guess so." She felt the familiar anxiety at being understood. She'd tried so hard to get over it instead of simply running away. But even now she could feel the mask trying to slide over her face. She pushed at it. "I miss it."

  "So do I," Gwen said. "I wasn't as involved as you but there's a small hollow place in my heart, too." She took a sip of coffee. "Know what the miracle was for me? For the first time in our lives, it was all right to like women. I don't mean as lovers, necessarily. As friends. We'd never been allowed to like women before, remember?"

  Stoner nodded. She recalled conversations between her mother and her mother's friends. Always about things like how much more interesting men were to talk to than women. Even though the women talked about who Was doing what, and why, and wondered about Life—while the men mostly argued about the best series of roads to take from City A to City B, or whose car got the best mileage. She never did figure out what it was about road maps that made them more interesting than lives. But that was before she'd learned about the Patriarchy and how whatever It/They did was—by definition—all that really mattered.

  "We were going to expose it all and change the world," she said.

  Gwen reached over and took her hand. "You still might. I have great faith."

  But before they could really get the Revolution going, Ronald Reagan was in the White House.

  "How did Reagan get elected?" Stoner asked.

  "I think," Gwen said, "it had to do with Iran, hostages, and the U.S. Olympic Hockey Team. Or, as we say in Jockdom, 'Team U.S.A.'."

  "I never met anyone who voted for him, did you?"

  "Not in the People's Republic of Massachusetts," Gwen said. "But I'll bet everyone in my home town did. He was the greatest thing to hit Georgia since Jefferson Davis."