The One That Got Away (11 page)

Maxine put her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear another coming out story.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, the reporter told me she couldn't use it. She said it would be bad for business; it might give women ideas. She asked what would happen to the wedding gown designers and manufacturers and the bridal shop owners if people started to get married in things like Hawaiian shirts?”

As she served the main course—tornedos of poached salmon with lemon rice—Natalie told me she was going hunting for morels with Maxine.

I had no idea what morels were, but I played along. “Where?”

“It's a secret.”

“I won't tell.”

“Well, we don't know where we're going and we won't find out until we get there,” Maxine said.

“We're supposed to meet the leaders in a parking lot, and they'll take us where we're supposed to go,” Natalie explained.

“Do you have to synchronize your watches too?” I asked.

Maxine pulled her wallet out of her pocket, opened it, took out a card, and handed it to me. The card informed me that Maxine was a member in good standing of the Park Slope Clitocybes. “The Park Slope Clitocybes sounds like a lesbian softball team,” I said.

“Well it's not,” said Maxine. “It's a mycological society.”

“Mushrooms,” Natalie said. “We're learning how to find them and identify them.”

“Those mushrooms we just ate. They weren't . . .” I thought I could feel my stomach cramping.

“I got those at Balducci's,” Natalie reassured me.

“My father told me once that I was going to die from eating mushrooms,” Bridget said.

I looked at her, but Natalie continued as though Bridget hadn't spoken.

“It is sort of inconvenient, not knowing where we're going,” Natalie said. “It makes it hard to pack.”

“Pack?” I said.

“We're going to be away for a weekend,” Maxine explained.

“Don't you have to make hotel reservations?”

“We're going camping.”

“Bugs, bears, bathroom-in-the-woods camping?” I tried to picture Natalie squatting behind a bush. “This has to be an April Fool's joke,” I said.

The meal had been spectacular so far, and I was looking forward to seeing what Natalie was going to bring forth by way of a birthday cake. I admit to being a traditionalist when it comes to birthday and wedding cakes. I love breaking the surface of the white icing to sink into the softer cream beneath, all buttery and sweet and sticking to the roof of my mouth, though not as much as peanut butter. I prefer a corner piece, or one with a rose. I wasn't expecting Natalie to have my very favorite kind of cake; she would probably agree with Eduardo, who complains that my taste is vulgar. Still, I was disappointed when she appeared carrying plates with little cookie cups piled high with some creamy substance and topped with a strawberry.

“It's a fool,” Natalie said. “For April Fool's Day.”

Bridget's didn't even have a candle in it.

After Natalie had cleared the table, Bridget opened her presents. Maxine had given Bridget a signed copy of her new book,
Lesbian Bed Death and Resurrection
.

“Thanks, Maxine,” Bridget said. “I'm sure I'll find this very interesting.”

When she saw the lampshade, Bridget laughed. She looked at me and began to snap her fingers. “When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day,” she sang.

Natalie glared at her.

“I'm going to put this in my office,” Bridget said. “Thanks, B.D.”

I looked over at Natalie. She looked back at me. “I am the gift,” she said.

At the door, Bridget held out her arms to me. I embraced her gingerly, afraid of holding her a bit too tightly for a heartbeat too long. I stepped back before she could pull away, but she let her hands rest lightly on each side of my body, sliding them up and down in an absentminded way.

“We didn't sing ‘Happy Birthday,'” I said.

“That's OK,” Bridget replied. “I'm just glad you were here, B.D. That's the really important thing.”

Chapter 12

“B.D., were you going to let me go out like this?”

“You look wonderful,” I said.

“My lipstick's smeared.”

Valentine stood in front of the mirror. I had just finished zipping up her dress. Earlier that day she had been Eduardo, wedding consultant to parvenus and arrivistes and my boss, but now she was the one and only Valentine Starlight.

I had seen drag so bad it was actually good, knowing all the while it was drag. But when Eduardo was in Valentine mode, he made me forget.

The paradox fascinated me. As Valentine, Eduardo became the glamorous woman I wished I could be, with the kind of body favored by fashion designers—slender, no hips, a small ass, and negligible breasts. Of course, in Valentine's case, what breasts there were, came courtesy of padding and other tricks.

I loved Valentine's outfits: the head-to-toe attention to detail, the color coordination and accessories.

“What are you going to sing?” I asked, although Valentine would, in fact, be lip-synching.

“I'm not sure. I feel sort of
melancólico
tonight, B.D.
I've been looking for Mr. Right but finding Mr. Right Now. But I know my audience is expecting something big, something bright, something Broadway.”

I sighed. “Well, I'm a little confused right now. When Bridget walked through the door of that bridal salon, I thought I'd found the special person I'd been hoping for. The more time I spend with her, the more I feel a connection between us. I fantasize about her all the time. But yesterday, at Bridget's birthday party, Maxine was so . . . I wanted her too, but in a different way. With Bridget, I look at her and the world stops, there's just the two of us.”

“Tony and Maria at the gym dance in
West Side Story
,” Valentine said.

“Well, yes. When you put it that way, it seems kind of corny, but it doesn't feel corny when it's happening.”

“And with Maxine?”

“With Maxine it's more like Luke Skywalker going into the cave in
The Empire Strikes Back
. I feel compelled, but a little scared. I dreamed about Maxine last night. She was a black cat.”

“How could you tell it was Maxine?” Valentine asked.

I thought for a minute. “The eyes. I looked into the cat's eyes and I knew it was Maxine.”

Valentine held up a different earring next to each ear. “Which ones should I wear?”

“The short jet dangles,” I said. “Am I depraved, Valentine? Wanting both Bridget and Maxine?”

“B.D., remember President Carter lusted in his heart. You can desire as many women as you want. You're not depraved, you've just been deprived—a little Jill-in-the-Box who's finally been set free.”

After Valentine went off to do her show, I met Annalise and Ellen at a Greek diner. As we drank coffee from white cups so thick our biceps got a workout with every sip, Annalise advised me on how to be a proper lesbian, a lesbian who could be recognized as a lesbian by other lesbians. I borrowed a pen from Ellen and took notes on a napkin.

“First, cruising is a subtle art, B.D.,” Annalise said. “Stop with the human periscope imitation. I can tell when a butch walks by the window just by watching you.”

“It's not good for your neck,” Ellen said. “You could give yourself whiplash.”

“Now for your cultural education. You have to see
The Hunger
.”

“Isn't that a vampire film?”

“Yes, but there's a sex scene with Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve.”

“But I don't like scary films. I was sixteen years old before I watched
The Wizard of Oz
straight through. I used to turn off the TV the minute the Wicked Witch of the West came on,” I said.

“B.D., it's Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve!”

“Then you have to rent
Salmonberries
,” Ellen said.

“Didn't that get terrible reviews?”

“Just fast forward to k.d. lang's nude scene and press the pause button.”

“Why doesn't someone just put all these scenes on one DVD?”

“You have seen
Desert Hearts
, haven't you?” Annalise asked.