The One That Got Away (7 page)

I didn't have to reply; the look of dismay on my face was enough.

“You've got great taste, kiddo! I've been trying to get into Bridget's pants for years!”

“Look, Sylvia, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't discuss this with anyone.”

“Not to worry, B.D. I don't get around much these days; I'm semi-retired from the community scene.” She looked at me almost tenderly. “How long have you been out?”

“Not long enough, I guess.”

“Have you been to bed with a woman yet?”

“No.” I blushed.

“So, do you want your first sexual experience with a woman to be with someone you know, or do you just want to do it and get it over with?”

“Actually,” I said, “I've been thinking of paying someone to do it.”

Sylvia looked startled. “Oh, I don't think that will be necessary.”

Erica interrupted us. After Sylvia excused herself, Erica said, “B.D., do you realize how long you've been talking to that woman? Will you please circulate?”

In the days after the party, I found myself thinking about Sylvia's question about my first sexual experience with a woman. I wondered if she might have been making me an offer I'd inadvertently refused.

Eve, my therapist, said Sylvia's question was inappropriate. “She should never have asked you such a thing.”

“Why not?” I said. “It sure beats, ‘So what sign are you?'”

I asked Annalise and Ellen if they thought Sylvia might have been making a pass at me.

“You may look, act, and talk like a femme, B.D.,” Annalise said, “but sometimes you think like a butch. A true femme would have snapped at that like a trout trying for a fly.”

I was depressed at the thought that I might have closed a window of opportunity. Who knew when another one might open?

I found Sylvia's name in the phone book, wrote out a script for what I wanted to say, and practiced it before dialing the number at two o'clock in the afternoon on a weekday. Despite the probability that she would be at work, as I was, I was still relieved when her answering machine came on.

“Hi, Sylvia, this is B.D.. We met at that party last week. I was wondering if you might like to have dinner sometime.” I left my home and work numbers and hung up.

Sylvia returned my call the next day. We arranged to meet at a Thai restaurant in Chelsea on Saturday evening.

Saturday afternoon as I poured bubble bath under the running water, I started to think about toothbrushes. What did you do if you were going out on a date and might not end up coming home until morning? I didn't want to carry a purse. The idea of using someone else's toothbrush was disgusting, although when I thought about it, that didn't really make sense, because when you kissed someone you were in contact with the same parts of their mouth that their toothbrush was.

Dinner was pleasant. The food was good and the conversation flowed fairly easily. We talked about books and music and Sylvia's job as a set designer. Afterward, we walked through Chelsea toward the Village.

“Y'know that question you asked me, at the party?” I said. “About my first sexual experience with a woman?”

“Uh-huh,” Sylvia said.

“I don't suppose you meant—”

“No,” Sylvia said. “But after the party I was afraid you might have taken it that way.”

“Oh, I didn't,” I said. “I was just wondering.”

When we reached West 4th Street, Sylvia said, “I think I'm going to head back to Brooklyn. Take care of yourself, OK?”

On the way home I bought the Sunday New York Times and a pint of Häagen-Dazs German Chocolate Cake ice cream. After I closed the door behind me and locked the locks, I unzipped my jacket, took my toothbrush out of the inside pocket, and put it back on the bathroom sink.

Chapter 6

It seemed strange to be talking about a day in June when the sky was battleship gray and the air was an icy slap in the face.

“You do understand that we're not talking about the June of this coming year, but the next one,” Eduardo said.

The bride-to-be sat in the chair placed at the corner of the coffee table diagonally across from me. Her fiancé, seated to my right, had disturbed the symmetry by moving his chair closer to hers. They were holding hands. Now he turned to her and said, “You mean we have to wait a year and a half to get married just so we can have the reception at some garden? Can't we do it somewhere else?”

I wanted to laugh at his naiveté.

“It's not some garden, David. It's the New York Botanical Garden,” the woman said.

“Isn't that in the Bronx? Kelly, what about my mother? You know she doesn't travel west of Fifth Avenue or above 72nd Street.”

“One word, David. Limo.”

“Well, I don't know, Kelly.”

I watched as Kelly's face began to take on the all too familiar look that preceded a major tantrum. But she had the presence of mind to shift into a simple pout for her beloved's benefit.

“Well,” David began.

I kept watching Kelly. Now she looked like she was trying to work up a few tears. I might have underestimated her acting abilities.

“If it's what you really want, sweetheart.” David's capitulation was complete.

It was easy, in the lethargy of late afternoon, to convince myself that antlers were growing from David's head, and transpose him into a trophy over a mantle. I thought the wedding ring should go through his nose instead of on his finger.

Then I glanced out the front window and witnessed the silent arrival of the first snow of the season, large flakes swirling around like cheap tissue confetti. I forced myself to focus on my notes, although I really wanted to run to the window and shout, “Look, it's snowing!” By the third or fourth snowfall I would be more blasé, but right now I was a child again.

Eduardo paused between sentences, and I knew he'd seen it too. I looked over at him and saw satisfaction in his expression. Things were proceeding according to plan.

Growing up in the Southern Hemisphere and celebrating Christmas in the summer had offended Eduardo's innate sense of propriety. It was a relief to him to finally be able to indulge in seasonal festivities at the appropriate temperature.

“Don't worry, David,” Eduardo said as he escorted the happy couple to the door. “There will be plenty for you to do in the next year and a half. The time will just fly.”

“Did you see those tears?” I asked Eduardo as we carried boxes of ornaments marked “Ofc” up from the basement. The boxes marked “apt” remained below for the tree-trimming portion of Eduardo's annual all-day holiday fête, held the Sunday before Christmas. “When the straight-to-DVD vampire film she's supposedly starring in is finished, you have to rent it and invite every gay man you know to watch it. And I want to be there to hear what they have to say.”

Eduardo celebrated Christmas in a big way. No sooner had I finished digesting the stuffing from my cousin's Thanksgiving turkey than Eduardo began his annual holiday rituals.

“You're coming to my fête, aren't you B.D.?” he asked. “I'm starting with brunch again, served on the Spode Christmas Tree china, followed by
Miracle on 34th Street
. From 1:30 to 5 we'll trim the tree, and then we can watch
It's a Wonderful Life
. Dinner will be at 7.”

“Served on the Wedgwood or the Royal Doulton?”

“I haven't decided. I know traditionally I've used my grandmother's Royal Doulton, and this dinner party is steeped in tradition, but I just got the Wedgwood and I'd like to show it off. And of course, we'll walk off all those calories with some caroling, then return for
White Christmas
and wassail.”

“Oh, Eduardo,” I said. “It will be all men, and I feel like I've reached a point in my evolution as a lesbian where gay men aren't going to be much help.”

“You mean you're not going to meet someone at my fête who will go to bed with you,” Eduardo said. “You're right about that, but you're also wrong because what you need to be doing right now is finding your family. We can't choose the family we spend the first part of
our lives with, but we can create the family that we want to live our lives with. You know, B.D., I wanted Kris Kringle to be my father. I wanted to be an orphan like the little Dutch girl, sitting on Papa Noel's lap, while he sang to me in my native language. My father knew, B.D.; he knew very early on. I would try on my sister's hats or reach for one of her dolls and my father would say, ‘Maricón,' and turn away. I was defective, an embarrassment, something to be ignored. You've become a member of my family, bebé, and it's important to me that you be part of my Christmas celebration.”

“Then of course I'll be there, Eduardo,” I said. “Though I may get a little depressed around the mistletoe.”

“Stay near the cookie tray.”

I perked up. “Is André coming?” André the baker had a pastry shop around the corner from our office. At last year's party he had brought an enormous tray of delicious, exquisitely decorated butter cookies.

“Yes, André told me he'll be there. B.D., go outside and let me know how our tree looks from the sidewalk.”

I stood in front of the window, shivering, and nodded my head. Eduardo drew his eyebrows together, then arched them and smiled. There was a man standing next to me. He'd stopped to look at the tree. He had gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and sapphire blue eyes. He was tall enough and wide enough for me to hide behind if I wanted to.

The man laughed and I saw that Eduardo was using a ball ornament as a mirror and smoothing his hair into place. Eduardo heard the laughter, looked up, and winked. The stranger considered the tree, then pointed to the top right.

Eduardo indicated a bare branch with his finger and mouthed,
Here?

The stranger nodded. Eduardo smiled, held up one
finger, disappeared, and returned carrying an ornament, a silver bear in a Santa suit. He carefully hung it from the bare branch and looked out, searching for approval. The stranger gave him two thumbs-up.

Eduardo held up one finger again. A minute later he was opening the door. “Would you like to see the tree from another perspective?” he asked.

There was a moment of silence, then the stranger said, “Sure, why not?”