Art on Fire (26 page)

“Oh, good. God. I thought I put this stupid thing on for nothing.” Francesca sat on one of two plastic lawn chairs while Shanta brought in the three gowns, wrapped in plastic, and laid them on the top bunk. Shanta walked slowly, deferentially, around the small room, taking in each darkened beam, the stack of cigarette packs on the windowsill, tubes of paint abandoned to a pile in the corner, the collection of overturned coffee cups drying out beside the sink. Obediently, she did not glance at the walls—which were empty—nor at the three easels set apart from one another, all holding canvases that were turned to face the wall. There was nothing for her to see. Nothing at all. Any remaining canvases loitering about the small room had been covered with sheets and clothing, creating an odd air of insanity, as if Francesca were not a painter at all, but just a lunatic who collected blank surfaces and pretended they were art.

“I like it,” Shanta said, nodding repeatedly, smiling.

“Like what?” Francesca glanced around.
Had she forgotten to cover something
?

“The cabin. All it needs is a lava light.” Her teeth glowed coconut against her brown skin.

Francesca pulled a cord and illuminated a bulb that hung from the ceiling. “Sorry. I like to paint in the dark.”

“You're kind of a hippie,” said Shanta.

Francesca shrugged. “That's my aesthetic—”

“Is that what you call it—an aesthetic?” Shanta teased.

Francesca lit a cigarette.
That word
, she thought,
I hate that word
. “Are you saying I have no aesthetic?” she asked, her voice tight. She took a long drag of her cigarette. She remembered—still—how her mother had scoffed at her for possessing such a refined thing as an aesthetic, as though Francesca couldn't possibly desire something described by more than two syllables: Hut. Ball. Ice cream. Bedspread. Record.

Shanta slid onto the bottom of the bunk bed, wriggled back against the wall. “So, you know what I want, don't you? Right here in your cabin.” She unbuttoned the fly of her jeans, one heavy button at a time, blinking as if startled each time a chunky knob popped free.

“I asked you a question,” said Francesca.

“What was it?” She slid her jeans down the length of her legs and onto the floor.

“I asked if you think I have no taste.”

“You have very nice taste,” said Shanta, her eyelids sinking lower. “And I think you taste very nice, too.” She removed her designer brand underwear and spread her legs wide.

“I don't think we have time.”

“Oh yeah, this'll go fast. Trust me.” Shanta pressed her feet up against the underside of the top mattress, flexing the muscles in her calves.

Francesca took off her jacket slowly, rolled up her sleeves, and placed her cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. She took a step closer and stared down. Shanta's naked cunt was splayed there, glistening. It looked dangerous. As if to kneel down and put her face there, to bury her face there as she had done so many times before, might cost her something precious. Her dignity, or her freedom, something too big to risk. It was the wrong context and in this context it seemed perverse—standing above and peering down like a clinician. She stepped closer and inhaled the first whiff of sex hitting the damp air. She shook her head. “I can't.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“I'm all dressed. Let's do it afterward.”

“Afterward?” Shanta sat up. “What do you mean, afterward?”

“After the thing. When we get back to your place.”

“I want it here. In
your
place. I want you to fuck me here. Like a big butch.”

Francesca stepped back in horror. She put her hands in the air. “Whoa. What did you just say?”

“I said I want you to—”

“Tell me . . .” interrupted Francesca, “Tell me that you didn't just call me a big butch.”

Shanta hesitated. “Okay. I didn't.”

“Did you?”

“Did I or not? What do you want me to say?” Shanta stood up and bent over, searching for her underwear.

“I want you to say you didn't.”

“Okay. I didn't.”

“Good. Because that does nothing for me. Let's get that perfectly clear. Just because I'm wearing a tuxedo. Just because you see me as, I don't know, kind of masculine or something. That doesn't mean I want to be a guy.”

“First of all,” Shanta said, searching frantically for her underwear, “being a butch is not the same thing as being a guy. If you knew anything at all about lesbianism, you'd know that.” Her voice quivered. She pulled on her panties and turned her attention to the dresses, separating a wine-colored gown from the others.

“So now you're saying I don't know about lesbianism.”

“You're not listening to what I'm saying. But then, you never do.”

“First, you tell me I have no taste. Now you're saying I'm too stupid to know the difference between being butch and being a man.” Francesca lifted her cigarette from the ashtray and took a long drag. She stood with her back to the wall, one hand rammed in her pocket.

“I thought you'd like being called a butch. I thought you were going for that.” Shanta removed the dress from its hanger. She turned her body away from Francesca and stepped carefully into the gown. “So, sue me,” she muttered, suddenly, ineffably tired. Tired of being so careful all the time.

“I'm not trying to
be
anything. I'm just dressed up. I'm just being myself.”

“Got it. It won't happen again.”

“I don't want to be
butch
. I don't feel
butch
. I mean, are
you
trying to be something?” Francesca waved her hands around, as if searching for something in the dark.

Shanta had never heard Francesca talk this much, flail about hopelessly for so many words. Her paintings were as deep as the ocean at its most aqueous, but, sadly, there had been no gift for language bestowed in equal measure. She refrained from expressing her frustration, stopped herself from likening, aloud, this conversation to discussing complex and intellectually demanding issues with a toddler. Whatever Francesca's deep thoughts, Shanta decided, they were better left unmolested, reserved for her paintings.

The darkness settled slowly, turning the interior of the cabin, lit by one bulb, to a soft gold. Shanta removed stockings from her knapsack, tossed a small, black beaded handbag onto the bed, then rolled the stockings up over her muscular legs, all in perfect silence. She stood up.

“Ta da,” she said with no enthusiasm. She opened her arms.

“You look great.”

“Good. Because I feel like shit. Let's go.” She wanted to crawl into the dusty cubby beneath the bunk bed.

“Your skin . . .” Francesca stepped forward and wrapped one large hand around each of Shanta's hips, “is so beautiful. It reminds me of wine.”

“Whatever,” Shanta said, pretending.

Francesca held Shanta's chin and kissed her on the mouth, long and slow, a gentle kiss full of the affection she felt in that moment. And she felt, in that moment, great affection. It was a relief. If only she could tether this feeling to the inside of her. If only she could force her feelings for the good-natured and lovely Shanta into the cordoned-off section of her heart. But that was Lisa's kingdom. Perhaps love can feel like this, she thought. Perhaps this is love. You have nice sex. Someone's face is pleasant to look at, like a beautiful color. They say interesting things about half the time. You have a warm feeling. A protective feeling.
Perhaps I am too fussy
.

Outside, she held the car door open as Shanta gathered the bottom of her gown and wrapped it around her body, sliding effortlessly into the driver's seat.

Francesca wished she could be the one doing the driving—opening the passenger's door for Shanta, walking around the front of the expensive car and assuming the position of control, blanketing the leather-coated stick shift in her palm. Instead, she climbed in on the passenger's side, pushed in the cigarette lighter, and rolled down the window.

“You smoke too much,” Shanta said.

“I hate these dinner things.”

“Do you even know what this is for?”

“Some award.” She shrugged.

“Do you know
who
it's for?” Shanta asked, her voice tightening. Francesca shrugged. “Me?”

“No, it's for
both
of us. We're
both
receiving an award from the community.”

“What community?”

“Jesus Christ, Francesca. The gay and lesbian community. You
are
a member of that community, you know. Whether you like it or not.”

Francesca stared at Shanta. “I know that.”

Shanta had known for weeks about a bitter debate surrounding their selection for the award. She'd chosen to protect Francesca from the petty infighting, knowing how her lover dreaded these affairs, wanting to do nothing to aggravate her discomfort. But now, after what had just happened in the cabin, she felt vindictive. Had she not looked fabulous in her gown and known there would be gobs of fascinating people at this event, she might be in a puddle on the floor right now, inconsolable. Every time she convinced herself that Francesca was good for her, something reminded her it was a lie. Still, Francesca, whether she admitted it or not, was so deliciously, beautifully butch, so enigmatic, so tortured, so damaged and reticent and impossible to know; and Shanta was helpless to do anything but wait until the day when Francesca hurt her for good.

“I wasn't going to tell you about this—” She shifted deftly into
fourth gear and opened the sunroof as they cruised onto the highway, passing signs for the beaches, leaf-smothered entrances to hiking paths, two men and their dog. (Shanta beeped and waved; they returned the gesture, peering after the car.)

“What.”

“There was a lot of controversy. About us.”

“Us? Why?”

“Someone spread a rumor that you . . .” Shanta smiled. “You're really going to hate this—”

“What.”

“That you weren't born a woman.”

“What do you mean? What else would I be?”

She shrugged. “I don't know . . . A transsexual?”

Francesca felt sick. Her head seemed pulled taut as a rubber band. She didn't mind being a tomboy. She knew she was a tomboy. A little on the masculine side. Maybe she was even butch, though she hated that word and all it connoted. But now people were questioning the authenticity of her gender?

“What ever happened to just liking women?” she asked.

“Don't let it get to you, baby. The whole transgender thing is a fad. I assured them I had firsthand evidence to the contrary,” she winked. “And it all would have blown over the way these ridiculous controversies do . . . if this vocal contingent of gay men hadn't opposed being represented by a transgendered lesbian. Which of course you're not. I told them that. But gay men are weird about butches. Not that you're butch. Then these New York lesbians got involved.”

“New York?” Francesca started to sweat. “Why are people from New York involved?”

“Tourism and politics. Provincetown's national pasttime. The New York Chapter of The Lesbian Avengers joined with SALSA, this Latina group, also from New York, to protest the historical under-representation of people of color among awards recipients.”

“I don't understand why New Yorkers are involved. Can we turn on the A/C?”

Shanta pressed a button that closed all the windows simultaneously. The air conditioner exhaled, and that, combined with the jerking motion
of the car—Shanta was not a gifted driver—made Francesca sick to her stomach.

“Do you have any pot?” she asked. “I need to calm down.”

It just so happened that Shanta, who maintained a daily habit, had tucked a joint into the smooth, satin pocket of her beaded purse. Francesca unsnapped the little black bag, found the joint, stroked the pouch's bumpy exterior before closing the clasp with a pop. She pushed in the lighter and sat farther back into the leather seat. “I don't understand why people from New York have to get involved in something like this. I mean, they can come and all, but why do they have to make such a big deal?”

“New Yorkers like to have a say in everything. They're like God.” Shanta took a long hit off the joint. “Good idea, baby,” she said, indicating the joint. “I thought we'd go out on the deck and smoke it later. But there will be plenty of weed there.” She was enjoying herself, having leveled the playing field. Now, at least, she wasn't the only one feeling lousy. “Of course,” she continued, the pot making her more garrulous. “I don't count as a person of color because I come from money. Apparently, if you're ‘of color' and you're ‘of money', one cancels out the other.”

“I'm not ‘of money.'”

“But we're
both
getting the award. So we're
both
under scrutiny.” Shanta wanted to slap her. The whole timid, self-absorption thing made it impossible even to have a decent fight. The minute she raised her voice, she felt shrewish, as if she were berating a retarded child. “Anyhow,” she said, “you're problematic for other reasons. Some other NY group, with the acronym JALOPY—”