Keeping You a Secret (19 page)

Kate worried a loose thread on her sweater sleeve. "She just overreacted. It can be a rude awakening, you know." The oven timer buzzed and Kate scraped back her chair. “She has to get used to the idea, that’s all.”

“How long did it take you?" I asked.

She either didn't hear or didn’t care for the question. I watched her remove the loaves from the oven and set them atop the burners. "It hasn’t been easy with Cece," she finally said. “Not that she’s… gay." Kate faltered, as if it hurt to speak the truth. “Just that she’s so out there. Iʼm afraid for her all the time. I donʼt want her to get hurt.”

She turned and looked at me, through me. I didn’t know what she expected me to say. “Like the locker incident?” I settled on. 

"What locker incident?" she snapped.

"Nothing." Shit. I stuffed my big mouth full of bread. 

“Dammit." Kate folded her arms. “I don’t understand why she has to flaunt her sexuality. It’s a private thing. She should keep it that way. Be discreet, like her sister. I don’t see you out there exposing yourself to the world.” 

Not because I wouldn’t, I wanted to say. And it wasn’t about sexuality. Not entirely. It was about identity. Love. 

Kate added, “She’s just asking for trouble.”

I thought she was asking for acceptance. I almost said it. Good thing my mouth was full because now was not the time to debate the visibility issue. Not the time to debate anything.

Removing her apron, Kate let out a weary breath and said, “I want her to be happy. That’s all Tom and I have ever wanted for our kids. I’m sure your mother feels the same way, Holland. We want so much for our kids to grow up and have all the things we never had. We have high hopes for you. Expectations, dreams. Then, something like this…” Her voice trailed away.

Something like this. Right. Shattered dreams. When it came to my mom, shattered dreams seemed to be my specialty.

I stayed with Cece the next couple of days. My cell phone became my constant companion. I’d check it hourly – make sure it was on, the batteries charged. Mom knew my number. When I hadn’t heard from her by Friday, I decided to stop by the house after work. If nothing else for more clothes, for the cash in my safe. I couldn't keep borrowing gas and lunch money from Cece.

Mom’s car was parked in the driveway. My pulse quickened. Maybe when she saw me, remembered who I was…

The back door was locked, so I dug out my house key and inserted it into the keyhole.

It didn’t fit.

I don’t know how long I stood there, in denial. She was in the kitchen, behind the curtain. I could see her silhouette. She saw me, I know she did. The outline vanished. The message sank in. I stumbled back to the Jeep. 

When I let myself in the back door of Cece’s house, I heard Cece in the kitchen with her mom, arguing. Cece yelled, “Why can’t she stay here? What are you going to do, throw her out on the street?”

Kate said, "Calm down. That isn't going to happen, and you know it. But I called and talked to her mother.”

My stomach hurt. I wobbled a little; had to brace myself against the pantry shelves. 

Kate’s voice lowered. “It looks like we’re going to need to find her a more permanent place.”

I felt like throwing up.

Cece said, “Mom, she
has
to stay here. Everything that's happenned, it's all my fault.”

“No, it isnʼt," Kate barked. “It takes two to tango.”

“I don’t mean that." Cece clucked her tongue. “I mean…” Her voice fell away. “Itʼs just my fault.”

“No, it isn’t." I stepped through the doorway. “Your mom’s right, Cece. I need to find a place to live.” 

“No." Cece rushed across the room and flung her arms around me. “I want you to stay here.” 

“Ceese, you know I can’t. Not like this." I glanced briefly at Kate. “It’s too hard.”

Cece’s face disintegrated. She knew I was right. It was agony not being able to be together. To hold each other, to kiss and touch and sleep together. She wheeled on her mom, but I pushed Cece out to the kitchen before she said something she’d regret. We didn’t both need to be on the streets. 

"Cece," her mom stopped us midway through the living room. “Come back here a minute.”

Cece squeezed my hand and retreated. Her mother hugged and kissed her. It made my stomach heave and I raced for the bathroom.

***

Faith was hanging at my locker the next morning. Literally. She was slumped over like a rag doll, swinging her head, her stringy black hair sweeping the floor. This atonal chant was issuing from her mouth, sounding like a death knell.

Her own, I hoped. 

“What do you want?” I said.

She jerked upright. Her head smacked against the locker with a clang.

Ow. Any other time I might’ve been concerned about a possible concussion. At the moment, I couldn’t seem to garner much compassion.

"I just…" She gulped audibly, like she could detect my murderous vibes. "I wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you, Faith. Do you mind?” I indicated my blocked locker.

She stepped aside. I opened the locker and shoved in my duffel. I gathered books and spirals into my arms and when I shut the locker, she was still there. “What?” I snapped.

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

"Oh, yeah. I’m great. Thanks for caring." I wheeled. 

"I do," she said at my back. "I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Sorry? I seethed inside. Sorry doesn’t cut it, Faith. Sorry doesn't begin to cut it.

***

The next couple of evenings Cece and I checked the classiness for apartments. The cheapest studio we found was five hundred dollars a month. “I don’t bring home even half that,” I told her. “What am I going to do?” Panic rose in my chest. "What if I end up living in my Jeep?”

“That wouldn't be so bad," Cece said. “It's cozy in there. Put in a TV, a lamp.” 

I couldn't even work up a mock sneer. 

“Don't worry, baby." She rested her forehead on mine. “Everythingʼll work out.”

Yeah, I thought. Like my life so far. 

On Saturday morning Cece woke me by throwing herself on my lifeless form. “Get up. It’s moving day.” 

I groaned. Our midnight phone chats were recalibrating my internal clock.

Cece said, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier.” She lifted the sheet and wriggled in beside me. “You’ll always have family now,” she murmured. “You're one of us.” She ran a finger down my cheek.

“Cece, don’t do that," I cautioned, covering her finger with my hand. “You know what it does to me.”

“Get out of there!” Kate shrieked, propelling me into the air. Cece, too. 

“We’re just talking,” Cece said.

“I donʼt care. Get out.”

Cece flung off the sheets and scrambled over me. “Come on, Holland. We're going down to the Center to check out their housing resources. Like I said, you have real family now." She nailed her mother with a look. 

I’d settle for any semblance of real.

***

The Center was the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgendered Resource Center. It was an innocuous brick building located in a strip mall next to a Kinko’s copy shop. I wouldn't have noticed it at all if it hadn’t been for the rainbow flag. On the door were two signs: SAFE SPACE and LOVE SPOKEN HERE. I clung to Cece as we entered.

A few people were gathered around a TV watching The Price Is Right and shouting, "Higher! Higher!" An older woman passed us on her way out and smiled a hello. Maybe I could live here, I thought. It feels welcoming.

I let Cece do the talking. She explained my situation to the receptionist, who kept shaking his head and saying how sorry he was. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t need his sympathy; I needed a home.

“Wait right here," he said. He shot out of his chair. “Donʼt move a muscle." Like I could. 

He raced around the corner and down a hall. A minute later he reappeared. “Go on in. Third door to your right." His phone rang and he answered out of breath, "GLBT Center. We’re glad you called. My name's Terry. How can I help?”

A woman was waiting outside the office. “Hi, I’m Syd," she said, shaking our hands. "I’m the resource coordinator. Come on in, have a seat." She motioned us inside. “Terry told me what happened. I'm really sorry, Holland. You came to the right place.”

Syd circled her desk and sat. “The Center has a housing program for street youths.”

Street youths? God. I never thought I'd be a street youth.

Syd got on the phone. It took her a while to find a place with an opening. Everywhere was full. There were even waiting lists, which should’ve made me feel better, less alone. But it didn’t. I just felt freaked. What if I ended up living on the street?

Cece reached over and took my hand. It calmed me a little.

“You do? Fantastic!" Syd held up an index finger. “Great. Thanks, William. I’m sending them right over." She hung up. “There's a vacancy at Taggert House. Here’s the address.” She scribbled on a pink message pad.

“Do you want to talk to someone about this, Holland?" she asked, handing the page to me. “We have counselors here.”

“I’m fine," I mumbled.

“She's fine,” Cece echoed. “She has me to talk to.” 

Syd smiled. It felt warm, wonderful, that she knew we were a couple. She gave us driving directions to Taggert House and we left.

When we pulled up at the building, I almost hurled. It was an old flea-bitten hotel downtown by the railroad tracks that had been converted to a shelter. A homeless shelter. Cece had to practically wrestle me out of the Jeep and drag me through the door.

"It ain’t the Ritz, but hey. What we lacks in looks, we makes up for in love.” The guy who managed the place, William, had a thick southern accent. Okay, he was sweet. He told us he and his partner shared an apartment on the main floor. “But the penthouse suites are on the second floor. This-a-way." He crooked a finger and bounded up the stairs.

As he unlocked my room at the top of the rickety steps, he added, “You’re lucky. This suite just opened up yesterday.”

I couldn’t contain the gasp that escaped from my mouth. The apartment was a dump. Wallpaper was peeling everywhere and the furniture, if you could call it that, was all ripped and filthy. The mattress – oh, my God – the mattress was stained. The whole place reeked of mold and rot and cat pee.

Cece entered the room and wandered around, fingering things. William pulled me aside in the hall. "Okay, hon, here’s your key. We really discourage you from making a copy for your girlfriend. We’ve had some problems with exes, if you know what I mean.”

No, I didn't know what he meant. Like what? Burglary? Domestic violence?

He pressed the key into my hand. “Let me give you the grand tour.” He crossed the threshold. “You have all your amenities. Salon, master bedroom, deluxe kitchen, den.” His arm swept across the one big room. There was the bed, a rusty sink, an ancient refrigerator, a crusted-over microwave, and a fifties dinette set. I spied the door to the bathroom on my right and decided against a preview. “There isn't a lot of storage space,” William said, “but if you need more there's a rental unit down the street. And if you want to use our kitchen for a party or something, just ask. We serve brunch on Sundays for everyone in the house, then afterwards we all gather for family hour. Just to see how everybody's doing."

“Is this the bathroom?” Cece asked. She popped her head in and pulled it out fast. The horror in her eyes spoke volumes.

William rattled off the rules: We were free to come and go, no parties on weekdays, be considerate noisewise. Not too restrictive. I asked the question I’d been avoiding, dreading the answer to: “How much is the rent?”

“For you?" He sized me up. “Free.” 

"Free? Are you kidding?”

William winked and grinned.

For free, it was the Plaza. 

"Until you get your feet on the ground," he added. "Then it's sliding scale.” 

“What’s that?” Cece and I asked together. 

“Means whatever you can afford. You just take care of
you
." He gave my arm a squeeze. "We have a philosophy here: Accept the help you need; give the help you can.”

Cece said, “How many other lesbians live in this place?” 

William replied, “None – at the moment. To be honest, we don't get too many women.” 

“That’s good," Cece said. 

What was good about it? I wondered. That I was a rarity? Oh, yeah, I felt so special.

“Wait," I said to William as he headed for the stairs. “Is every one here homeless?”

He scrunched up his face. “Now, hon. You're not homeless. Are you? Ramon, is anyone here homeless?" he called down the hall.

A tall boy with dreads, who'd just exited his apartment, turned around. "Homeless?" he quipped. "Not us." A dimple dented his cheek.

"Get out here.” William shooed him down the stairs. “Everybody here is, what we like to call, in transition. Moving to a better place.” He waggled a finger in my face. “You are
not
homeless. Now, when you feel up to it, come on down and fill out the paperwork. Oh, and I have some clean sheets and towels. A hull welcome basket full of goodies from the Center, too.”

“It’s not so bad," Cece said as I shut the door. “We can paint and hang curtains. Buy some rugs and kitchen supplies at yard sales." The hand she dragged across the dinette table left tracks in the grime. She wiped her fingers on her pants. “Today we'll give it a good scrubbing down –”

"Not today," I cut in. “I need to be alone today.” 

She frowned a little. Coming over to me, she said, “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Iʼm fine.”

She took my hands. “Holland…?”

“Please, Cece. Just go.”

She looked hurt, crushed, but must’ve sensed my need. She kissed me and said, “Don’t worry, baby. Everything'll work out. Your mom'll probably call next week and beg you to come home.”

I might’ve laughed.

“I’m sorry," she said. “It might take a little longer for her. But hey, look on the bright side." She removed her baseball cap and stuck it on my head, then pulled my face close to hers. “At least now we have a place.”

After I carted up my meager possessions, shut and locked the door, I wandered over to that dingy window. My view was the alley Dumpster, where some old bag lady was picking through the garbage. Yesterday, I thought, I was Holland Jaeger, regular parson, regular life. I had a home, a family, a history. Today I’m…