The One That Got Away (18 page)

I wanted a velvet dress. A kitten-soft, black velvet
dress that would tug at a hand to stroke it. And, in an all too rare conjunction of wish and fulfillment, I found it. No frills, just a lush cascade of black, flowing loosely out to float just above my knee.

On my way out of the store, walking through the designer boutiques, I saw the shoes. They stood out on the sales rack like an Old Master in a room of Abstract Expressionists. The Parisian designer had updated the old-fashioned, lace-up ankle boot. The pointy toe, the lace-up flaps, and the three-inch stiletto heel were in black suede. The rest of the boot was a faux silvery lace on a charcoal fabric. I looked at the bottom of the shoe. $395—reduced to $249—reduced to $119—reduced to $59. And they were my size. I tried them on. They fit.

“A woman had these on reserve for months,” the clerk told me as he rang up the sale. “When she finally decided she didn't want them, we had to mark them down several times. Plus, you get an additional twenty-five percent off anything you purchase with your store card today.”

Desideratum, one of my favorite lingerie stores, was next. It was one of the shops on my trousseau tour, and I spent a fair amount of my own money there as well. So Kiko gave me a big hello.

“B.D.! I was thinking about you just the other day. Help yourself to some coffee.”

I put down my bags and walked over to the little table with the coffeemaker, flowered sugar and creamer, mugs and real spoons.

“I need a pair of black stockings,” I said.

“With or without seams?”

“I'm not sure.” I showed Kiko my new shoes.

“Why not take a pair of each?” she said. “You can try
them on at home and decide which style looks best. You're sure to wear the other pair sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” I said. “That's a good idea. Now, do you have anything in a full slip that's my size?” I frequently complained to Kiko about the fact that so many of the bras I liked stopped at size 36. I had relegated small-minded lingerie designers to a special circle of Hell.

“That's why I was thinking about you,” Kiko said. “I got a new shipment of slips in the other day, and put one aside for you. I was going to call, but of course, here you are.” She went through the curtains into the back of the store and came back with a burgundy silk charmeuse full slip with black lace at the top and hem.

“Ooooh. Let me try it on.”

In the dressing room, I adjusted the ribbon straps and breathed a sigh of relief, realizing I had room to do so. Hands on my hips, I twisted right, then left, watching myself in the mirror.

“How's it look?” Kiko asked.

“It's just what I want,” I said.

That night I dreamed Bridget was pressing me into my bed, her hair tickling my cheek. I could have sworn I smelled her. I opened my eyes. As everything came into focus, I saw my cat on my chest and heard my phone ringing.

“Excuse me,” I said to Truffle as I sat up and reached for the receiver.

“Hey, B.D., I didn't wake you, did I?”

“Angel, it's one o'clock in the morning.”

“Is it? It's only ten o'clock here. I just thought you'd like to know that I arrived safely.”

“I'm glad,” I said. And I was.

“So, go back to sleep now.”

“OK. Good night, Angel.”

“B.D.?”

“Yes?”

“What are you wearing?”

I didn't reply right away. I was awash from neck to ankle in well-worn flannel. The cornflower blue background was fading to the white of the sheep, and the stars, once egg yolk yellow, were now the color of lemonade. The tiny buttons that closed the front of the gown had fallen prey to the washer one by one, and the slit on the left side, which originally ended at mid-calf, was now at my knee. “Just a little something I picked up today,” I lied. “A satin nightshirt. I wish it were an inch or two longer, though—when I move around, it keeps sliding up over my hips.”

There was a moment of silence. “Gee,” Angel said, “I was sort of picturing you in an old flannel nightgown.”

“I miss you,” I said.

“I miss you too. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

On the morning of New Year's Eve I was creaming butter and sugar in my grandmother's mixing bowl, the first step in my mother's chocolate cake recipe, when my buzzer rang. I leaned across the bureau where Truffle had been sleeping, pressed the “Talk” button, and asked, “Who is it?”

“WahWAHbabada.” As usual, the response from the intercom was unintelligible.

I pressed the Door button and waited. I heard the elevator door open and the footsteps start off in the wrong direction, then turn back. When the bell rang, I looked through the peephole, saw a face, and opened the door, leaving the chain on.

“Special delivery from Buff Buds,” said the blonde butch with a long box under her arm. She was wearing Doc Martens, black jeans, a black down jacket, and a black baseball cap with the Buff Buds logo: a rose
blooming from a fist, the arm flexed to show the bicep. Buff Buds was a flower shop in Chelsea. Eduardo and I used them occasionally; their tightly packed floral arrangements were popular with some of our clients. Other florists, however, spoke darkly about Don and Ron's choice of plant food.

As I signed the delivery slip, the butch said, “Glad to see you're getting some.”

“Pardon?”

“Flowers.”

“Oh,” I said. “Actually, this is a first for me.”

“Nice way to start the new year.”

“Yes, it is. Happy new year.”

“You too.”

I placed the box on my bed, lifted the lid, and found a dozen long-stemmed red roses. The card read: “One for each hour the bells will chime/One for each kiss owed to Bambi Devine. Your Angel.”

Dana opened the door wearing a garment worthy of the infamous enchantress Morgan Le Fay. It was not so much a dress as an accumulation of wisps.

A real fire was burning in the real fireplace. Votive candles lined the mantle, and a black and white portrait of Dana by a well-known lesbian photographer hung above it.

Bridget, Natalie, and Maxine were standing near the fireplace. Natalie was wearing harem-style black pants, the fabric sheer enough for me to just make out her thong, despite the fact that the lighting in Dana's apartment consisted of candles, candelabras, and wall sconces, bolstered by one lamp with a 60-watt bulb. A scoop-necked camisole stopped just short of Natalie's midriff. Even without the spaghetti straps, it would have
been obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra. Bridget watched her, and the reactions of the other women to her, with obvious enjoyment.

Bridget was decked out in black jeans, a white cotton shirt with the top button undone, and a loosely knotted black tie. I noticed that she also had on her down-at-the-heel, scuffed toe, unpolished black boots. For some reason I had yet to fathom, those boots always made me yearn to slither up her body, despite my being more elephant than eel.

Maxine had on black leather pants and a black brocade vest. As she reached across a side table for a glass of red wine, I noticed that she too was not wearing a bra. I decided to check out the small terrace, just off the bedroom. Bridget followed me out. “You're all gussied up tonight, B.D.”

I was wearing the burgundy silk slip under my new black velvet dress, and I had decided to wear the seamed stockings with the silver, faux lace boots.

“Are you wearing real stockings?” Bridget asked.

“Is it more fun for you to know or for you to guess?”

Bridget chuckled the way a lioness might—a low, rumbling sound that I felt at the base of my spine. “Why, B.D., I believe you're dangerous.”

“I'm glad to see you appreciate it,” I said. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“I'd rather guess.”

“Then I plead the fifth,” I said, and we walked back to the party.

Natalie was inspecting the buffet. In true potluck spirit, the offerings on the table ranged from caviar to comfort food. I watched Bridget reach for a serving spoon that was standing at attention in the middle of a macaroni and cheese casserole. “No,” Natalie said. If she'd had a leash, she would have jerked it. “You can eat Maxine's salad.”

I took a little bit of everything except the caviar, and a heaping portion of the macaroni and cheese. Then I wandered over to the window seat which looked out on Lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge. A moment later, Bridget was standing beside me, her back to the room and to Natalie. I lifted up my plate and she dipped her fork into the Velveeta-y mass. That's the kind of girl I am. Subversive.

After she finished the macaroni and cheese, Bridget went to get us both more wine. As she handed me my glass, she sat down on the opposite end of the window seat. The night was clear and the bridge glowed in front of us, but we were looking into each other's eyes.

If you want to imagine Bridget's eyes, go to a museum, one that has Monet's paintings of the water lilies in the gardens at Giverny. When you find a painting, or if you are lucky, more than one, take a seat—there is sure to be one in the gallery. Take in the greens the way you would soak up sun. The greens of the willows, sun-sheathed and shaded, of the reeds, of the Japanese bridge over the water strewn with lily pads and flowers. As you breathe in this universe of green, let yourself feel that you've been here before. And listen carefully to hear yourself singing in exquisite harmony with one other singer in the great life chorus. This sort of connection was what made Bridget my obsession.

I could never tell Bridget any of this, of course. I knew better than to speak about matters of the soul with a jovial butch jock.

Natalie came over to compliment me on my chocolate cake. I told her it was an old family recipe, taking a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that the secret ingredient was an entire can of Hershey's chocolate syrup.

The whole party trooped up to the roof to watch the
fireworks, along with groups from other apartments in Dana's building.

Natalie and Maxine stood at the stone balustrade; Bridget and I stood behind them. Bridget tried to slip her hands inside the open front of Natalie's leather coat, but Natalie slapped them away. “Your hands are cold.”

“I know. I wanted to warm them on you.”