The One That Got Away (3 page)

I chose
The Lesbian Quiz Book
from the Self-Help shelf. I had always enjoyed the quizzes in women's magazines. I liked filling in surveys too. I opened the book to the table of contents.

                 
“What Kind of Women Are You Really Looking For?

                 
What Kind of Woman Is Looking for You?

                 
Rate Your PC Savvy.

                 
Top or Bottom?

                 
Sex: How Do You Measure Up?”

I turned to “Weigh In on the Butch-Femme Scale”:

                 
1. To find a Phillips screwdriver, you would go to:

                          
a) A hardware store.

                          
b) A man named Phillip.

                 
2. If you had to buy a chemise, you would look for it in:

                          
a) An antique furniture shop.

                          
b) A lingerie boutique.

In Sociology an index card bearing a staff recommendation was taped to the shelf beneath
Unseen Yet Omnipresent: Queer Infiltration of Popular Culture
by Maxine Huff. “Huff is HOT!” had been added to the bottom of the card in bright pink Magic Marker. I looked at the author's portrait. The woman in the black and white photograph made me think of a pixie with PMS.
A fringe of dark hair framed furrowed brows, and the thin seam of her lips suggested impatience with the photographer. I had an urge to press my thighs close together. I added the book to my stack.

Near the front of the store, a man sat behind a display case. He eyed my stack of books, arched an exquisitely shaped eyebrow, and said, “Maxing out your credit card?” A sign propped up on top of the glass read, “Nellie's Tchotchkes: Fill Your House with Pride Stuff.” There were rainbow candles, rainbow flags, rainbow wind socks, rainbow pot holders, and rainbow switch-plate covers. If there's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, Nellie was sitting pretty.

“Are you Nellie?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “I couldn't help noticing that you spent a great deal of time in the Coming Out section. Might I suggest one of our Starter Kits? The basic kit comes with a rainbow bandana, complete with styling suggestions, your choice of freedom ring necklace or labrys, a rainbow pen with purple ink, and this lovely journal.” The journal had a photograph of Glenda the Good Witch on the front, with the words
Come out, come out wherever you are
.

“If you buy these items separately,” he continued, “they would cost $65, but the kit is only $44.95. Our deluxe kit for lesbians has packages of lavender latex gloves, finger cots, and dental dams, plus six lube samples. So much less embarrassing than buying them alone, and only $12 more.” He looked at me expectantly.

“I'll take the deluxe kit,” I said. “And a pair of those ruby slipper earrings.”

When I got home, I pulled out the bandana and styling suggestions and put on the labrys and earrings. If I wore the bandana around my neck, it covered the labrys. If I wore it on my head I looked like I was getting ready for spring cleaning. Well, in a way I was.

“Look,” I said to my cat, brandishing the labrys between two fingers. “The weapon of the Amazons.” Truffle blinked at me. “Let's dance,” I said, scooping him off the dresser and draping him over my shoulder.

“Y.M.C.A.,” I sang, then hummed the rest, because I couldn't think of the words. Sliding sideways, I whirled around in a dancing fool's polka until Truffle stopped purring and started squirming. Then I put him back on the dresser, and he lay down under the lamp and began to clean himself.

“Now for the good stuff,” I said, picking up
What Lesbians Do in Bed (and Other Places)
. The phone rang. I knew it had to be Renee because of the awkward timing. Renee always called during the denouement of a murder mystery, when the pasta had one more minute to cook, or as I was about to step into a bath. An offer to call her back, or even a blunt statement like “Uh-oh, something's burning,” wouldn't dam the flow of Renee's stream of consciousness. I sighed and picked up the receiver.

“Bambi? I was expecting your machine.”

“Hi, Renee.”

“I heard this really funny lesbian joke, so I had to call you.”

Renee was one of my straight friends. Or, as she liked to say, bisexual, because of the one time she'd had a threesome with a man and a woman. She felt this gave her an edge over my other heterosexual friends. Renee was thrilled that I had come out as a lesbian. She called me constantly with suggestions of movies to see, books
to read, places to visit, and to ask if I'd had sex with a woman yet.

“OK. Tell me,” I said.

“Tell you what?”

“That really funny lesbian joke. You said you called me because you heard this really funny lesbian joke.”

“I did but I just realized I've forgotten it. I was going to leave it on your machine, but I was so startled when I heard your voice that the joke went right out of my head.”

“Well, if you remember it, you can call me back.”

“I will. Goodbye, Bambi.”

I didn't wear the earrings, the bandana or the labrys the following weekend when I went to visit my parents.

At six o'clock my father was sitting in the wing chair near the front door, waiting for my mother to finish getting dressed. I was halfway down the stairs when she called to me, “Bambi, could you come here for a minute?”

I walked into my parents' bedroom, expecting my mother to ask me to help her with a zipper or a necklace. Instead, she said, “There's something I want to ask you.”

I figured either she wanted to know if I was having money problems or she wanted my opinion on how my father was doing.

“You're not gay, are you?” my mother asked me.

“Are you sure you want to discuss this right now?” I said, thinking of our dinner reservation.

“Just answer me, Bambi.”

“Are you going to get upset?” I asked.

“No, I just want you to answer me.”

“Well, actually I am. Gay.” I used her word. Now was not the time for a discussion about terminology.

“Since when?” my mother asked.

“That's a very complicated question, Mom.” I tried to picture a time line of my life, with a bright pink thumbtack marking the moment.

“Well, I'm not happy about it, but I'm not going to lose you over it.” I thought this was probably a shrewd decision, since I was her only child.

She fussed with the bow at the neck of her floral print blouse. “Are you going to tell everyone?” she asked, turning from the mirror above the double bureau to face me.

“If anyone asks, I'm not going to lie,” I said.

My mother sighed. “I just don't want to have to talk to anyone about it, that's all.” She pulled at the hem of her skirt. “Go downstairs and keep your father company. I'll be right there.”

As I walked back down the stairs, I heard the water running in the bathroom sink for a long time. I tried to figure out what had prompted the conversation I'd just had with my mother. I felt vaguely cheated. I'd expected that coming out to my parents would be something I'd agonize over and finally work up the nerve to do, but my mother had taken control. She had an unnerving way of knowing when something was going on in my life. Maybe God had told her. She was always saying that she talked to Him every night on my behalf.

My parents' friends were waiting for us at the Chinese restaurant. I didn't pay too much attention to either my food or their conversation. I thought about what my mother had said: “I just don't want to have to talk to anyone about it.” Presumably that included the two couples we were dining with that night. One of the women had known my mother for sixty years; the other had known her for nearly fifty. Both of them had sent me cards for every birthday I'd ever celebrated, even after I moved out of my parents' house. I'd see them at parties
and funerals, played with their children during summers at the seashore. I kept looking at their faces, trying to imagine their reaction if my mother shared her news. Could the simple fact of my being a lesbian so alter the way they felt about me?

Back at my parents' house, I changed into my pajamas and robe, hoping that something good would be on Turner Classic Movies. But when I walked into the room where my father was sitting in the recliner, feet up, with the cat on his lap, my mother said, “Martin, Bambi has something she wants to tell you.” My father looked at me expectantly. My mother looked at her hands.

For many years I'd suspected that my father had quite a lot he could say, but something held him back. I couldn't put a name to it, but I could feel it holding me back as well. And so we faced each other across a chasm of unspoken words.

“I'm a lesbian, Dad.”

He nodded then said, “Well, just be careful.”

I knew what “be careful” meant. His cousin had died of AIDS, although of course no one in the family would say that. I had a strip of three photographs of the two of them, taken in one of those booths you find in arcades—my father, a dark-haired adolescent, and his cousin, a fair-haired, angelic little boy. But I felt sad that the first association that came to my father's mind when I told him I was a lesbian was disease.

“There's something I don't understand,” my mother said. “You had that crush on Jerry Greenblatt all through high school, remember?”

Of course I remembered. I had a special portrait gallery in my memory for people who'd rejected me. But I suddenly thought of Jerry Greenblatt's sister, Judy. We'd been friends, and she had actually been more attentive to me, more appreciative of me, than he had. I wondered where she was now and what she was doing.

When I returned to my apartment there was a message from Ellen.

“Hi, B.D. We thought you might want to go with us to Lesbian Film Night at the community center. Give us a call.”

I fed Truffle and changed his water, then dialed Ellen's number. We chatted briefly, and I said I'd like to go with them.