A Perfect Life nd Other Stories (5 page)

BACK AT THE apartment, armed with pizza and beer, they sat on the
floor in the living room and listened to music from Tracy’s iPod hooked up to
the stereo.

“You don’t talk much about yourself. Is there a reason?” Tracy
asked as she sipped her beer. “Or maybe I just go on too much myself.”

“No, you don’t.” Kate looked at her then away. “I just haven’t
been able to figure out how to talk about . . . well . . .” She sighed, tried
looking into Tracy’s oceanic eyes, but lowered her gaze to her plate. “My wife
died two years ago. In a car accident. And it seems like time stopped at that
point and nothing has happened that would interest anyone. And I’m tired of
being the tragic widow, but there’s nothing else to say, and I don’t know how
to say that.”

Tracy set her beer on the coffee table and wiped her mouth. “I
think you just did.”

Neither spoke while the Dixie Chicks crooned
in the background about easy silence and peaceful quiet and suddenly Kate
wanted to laugh. That was all it took? Tracy hadn’t looked at her with pity or
said the usual, I’m sorry for your loss, it must have been hard, and for that
Kate was grateful. She popped the last bit of pizza into her mouth and savored
the squish of the artichoke, the bite of the garlic, and the aromatic parmesan.
It was the first time she had talked about Jill without crying.

Tracy leaned back against the couch and stretched her legs out.
Kate felt an urge to touch them, see if the curls were soft or wiry.

The iPod shuffled on to a peppy k. d. lang tune and the topics of
Kate’s deceased wife and Tracy’s ex-girlfriend sank beneath a surface of casual
conversation. They traded coming out stories, family histories, and anecdotes
of college life and jobs. At odd moments during brief pauses, Kate imagined
kissing Tracy, but it was such a foreign sensation that she couldn’t find a way
to act on it before the opportunity passed.

As midnight approached, Tracy suggested they call it quits before
their sleep cycles got more out of whack. Time had begun to move forward again,
much to Kate’s dismay. Tomorrow she would leave and Tracy would be relegated to
memory or a slowly dwindling e-mail friendship.

AFTER BREAKFAST, TRACY went to finish unpacking and Kate called
Rich.

“Good news,” he told her. “I’ve got you on the two-fifty flight
this afternoon. I’ll pick you up at one.”

Kate ended the call and looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty.
She called Margaret, back in Boston, to give her the new flight information,
but offered to take a cab.

“No dice,” Margaret said. “I want first dibs on details. Any
shipboard romances?”

Kate cringed. Margaret alternated between offering assurances that
God was watching over her with a plan and baldly pushing her into dating again.
“Nothing to report, Reverend,” Kate said with a sigh.

The call ended, she looked around the empty kitchen. A sense of
urgency filled her, but not what to do about it. She went to Tracy’s doorway
and watched her move around the room, humming to herself, dropping clothes into
a laundry hamper. Bill took a bath in her now-empty duffle on the floor. Kate
cleared her throat.

Tracy stopped and looked at her. “All set?”

Kate nodded.

“I can give you a lift to the airport.”

“You don’t have to. Rich said he’d come by at
one.”

Tracy remained still and quiet. It was as though energy passed
between them, a signal, but one that Kate couldn’t interpret. Her heart began
to pound. “Tracy.”

“Yes, Kate?”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “We’re two ships passing in
the night, and there’s not much time left, so I’m just going to say what I want
here. You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings.” She hooked her thumbs
in her pockets. Her voice shook. “I’ve been watching you for a week now,
wondering what it would be like to feel your arms around me. And I just
thought, if there was any chance you were—”

Before Kate could finish, Tracy crossed the room and wrapped her
in a firm hug.
Oh, God!
Kate’s knees weakened, but Tracy held her. She
marveled at how solid Tracy was. Jill had been so slender. Fragile. Just a slip
of a girl. Tracy’s muscles made her soft, not hard, which Kate had not
expected. She burrowed her face in Tracy’s shoulder, her shirt smelling briny,
like low tide. She slipped her hand underneath to rub her back.

When Tracy loosened the hug, Kate kissed her hard but let up
quickly when she felt how soft and gentle the return kiss was. Two years of
frozen emotion melted in a matter of seconds. Kate stopped thinking entirely as
Tracy lifted her off her feet and lowered her onto the bed. Fumbling with each
other’s buttons and zippers, she lost track of where she ended and Tracy began
until finally they were both naked and she felt Tracy’s skin against hers. Warm
and alive. With each kiss and touch, Tracy poured life back into her and she
absorbed it gratefully, hungrily. The only thought that intruded was,
don’t
cry
.

It was Tracy who cried. Just a little. Enough for Kate to notice.
She wiped the tear. “Maybe you were a little more hurt than you thought,” she
whispered.

“It’s not her I miss,” Tracy said softly. “It’s what we never
had.”

Later, she lay in Tracy’s arms, warm and sleepy. Tracy kissed her
hair and played with her fingers. Kate looked over at the clock. Eleven. Now
she wanted to cry.

“Let me take you to the airport,” Tracy said, then kissed her
neck.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

Kate shifted so she could look at Tracy. “There’s something I
probably should have told you. Before . . . well . . .” She felt Tracy tense.
She touched her cheek and smiled. “Nothing infectious.” Tracy didn’t move, but
an artery in her neck began to pulse. Kate turned back, afraid to watch Tracy’s
face as she completed her confession. “I don’t want to be a ship passing in the
night. I don’t do one-night stands.”

She felt Tracy relax and exhale. “Neither do I. Or one-morning
stands.”

Kate turned. Tracy was smiling, her eyes wet.

“When do you
have
to be back?” Tracy asked.

Kate thought about what that meant. “Well, Monday, I guess.”

“So you
could
stay another day.”

Kate nodded. “I need to call Rich.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Then I need to call Margaret again.”

“Will she mind?”

“Not when I tell her why.”

The Game

I HELD THE stick loosely. My right thumb rubbed a flaw in the
varnished surface, a crack in the veneer, so I turned it for a better grip and
realigned the shaft. The white cue ball, marred by smudges of blue chalk,
loomed large in this close view. Steady. I used to know how to do this. I knew
about angles and spin and strategy. But that was a long time ago. That was in
college. This was in a hotel bar in Provincetown. I willed the stick to hit the
ball, to ricochet off the bumper, to knock the yellow striped nine into the
corner pocket. Stick hit ball. Ball hit bumper. Then nothing. Missed the nine
by an inch and the cue ball rolled to a stop against a tight cluster of stripes
and solids. At least my opponent would have a difficult shot. She watched,
unsmiling, not focused on me but on the layout of the balls on the green felt
tabletop. I straightened and shrugged. No excuses.

The silence of my concentration was infiltrated by music drifting
from the dance floor downstairs and murmurs from the young women gathered at
the bar like wildebeests around a watering hole. Some turned to watch us, a
group of kids playing air hockey, and a foursome at the other pool table.

My opponent was a striking woman, that’s what had made me
challenge her. I wanted to see her bend and reach, to be able to look at her
while she concentrated on her shot, unable to look back at me. Tall, solid, and
confident, she wore her hair cut short on the sides but long on top, with a
tantalizing lock draped over her right brow. Flecks of gray added to the
allure. She’d been around the block a few times. She knew what she was doing.

She took her game seriously, circling the table, eyeing her
options. The sleeves of her denim shirt were rolled to the elbow, exposing
lean, muscled forearms. Her shirt tucked into black jeans that fit tight, but
well, decorated by a thick leather belt with a large silver buckle. She leaned
over the table. Her hands could easily break the cue stick, I thought, yet held
it gently, her right wrist fluid like a violinist’s. Her left hand splayed on
the felt bed, thumb and index finger supporting the stick. She wore a ring, but
so did I.

She cracked the cue ball into the clustered
pack, acknowledging I’d left her in a hole so she just blew it open, changing
the game. There is almost nothing so satisfying as the sharp clatter of
billiard balls against each other, a crash of sound waves in an otherwise
silent game. The colorful orbs skittered across the table, clacking into each
other and the cushions. Instant, brief chaos. The Big Bang writ small. Nothing
dropped, so it was my turn. She looked at me but her brown eyes, ebony in the
dim light of the bar, betrayed no emotion.

A light breeze cooled my back. The double
doors to the patio stood open and the scent of low tide drifted in from the
harbor across the street, brine and fish competing with sweat and beer. Dusk
deepened as the August sun set over my home back in Boston. I’m always a little
off kilter in P’town, east of a city I think of as being west of nothing but
ocean, and a place where I’m suddenly a member of the majority. The game
changes in P’town.

I felt her eyes on me as I scoped the table and wished I still had
the touch. This time I had options. One easy shot. I leveled the cue, sighted
carefully, and checked that the stick would glide smoothly through my fingers.
I wiped my hand on my jeans to be sure and set up again. The music and the
murmurs dropped away. My opponent faded and I was left with the shaft, the cue
ball, and the nine, again. I called it. Side pocket. This time I hit better.
The white ball spun away from me, connected, and stopped, transferring its
energy to the nine, which rolled smoothly till it vanished. I glanced at her. A
nod of acknowledgement. Maybe an exhale. Focus. The next shot would not be so
easy. Solids blocked my path leaving me with a banked shot.

When I was good, and I was very good, I’d enter a Zen state. My
senses would narrow or expand as needed. Sounds dropped away, lights
brightened, focus sharpened. It’s not about my opponent. My only opponent is
myself.

Pool is high school physics and geometry. Points move across a
level plane in straight lines, angles, and occasional curves. The angle of
incidence equals the angle of reflection. Force equals mass times acceleration.
Momentum and inertia. A transfer of kinetic energy. All I have to do is measure
the angle and the distance, calculate the force, anticipate the spin, adjust
for the friction of my fingers, align the stick. If I do each of these things
perfectly, I can’t help but sink the ball.

I tried to concentrate but was too aware of her watching me. This
time I hit my striped ball, but nothing went in. I’m no longer very good, or
even good. That takes practice, and I’ve had other things to focus on. No foul,
at least.

Pool is two-dimensional and simple, unlike life, which is
three-dimensional and messy, with textures and smells, ups and downs—where
success defies easy formulas. Life is a longer game, so I won’t know for a
while yet if I’ve made the right choices, called the right shots.

Four young things had wandered over. One wore dreadlocks, though
she was white, another had so much hardware stapled to her lips I wondered if
she could kiss at all. The other two were entwined around each other like a
brown-and-white candy cane. Hardware stepped forward and placed a pile of
quarters on the rail. She didn’t look at either of us. She wasn’t challenging
us. Me. She just wanted the table. When did that happen? When did I change from
being the object of a young woman’s attention to a mere obstacle to her
enjoyment? Someone she had to wait in line behind instead of wait for.

My opponent prepared her next shot. The bar
had vanished behind a wall of wildebeests, some holding beers and margaritas
and turned to watch the action, others huddled, arms draped across shoulders,
mouths mashed together. The music was louder now, the low-toned beat pulsing
through the floor, the high notes too weak to penetrate.

She bent over her shot. Muscles in her cheek flexed. I resisted
the urge to reach out and trace her fine jaw line with my finger. In college, I
didn’t have to worry about being distracted by my opponents. They were mostly
boys. In college, I never considered sex with boys, though I never thought
about it with girls either. Science labs took all my time. That game changed
long ago. Now, I wouldn’t mind transferring a little energy with her. Overcome
inertia. Gather some momentum. I wondered if she was the type to have an
affair. I wondered if I was.

She missed a complicated combination. Chalking
my cue bought me some time, but it didn’t help. We traded misses for a few
rounds before I finally sank my thirteen. Lucky me. The background noise grew
louder and the young women paced impatiently. So what. Each time she squinted
to aim, flexed her fingers on the table, then cringed when she missed, a little
zing went through me.

Running a hand through her hair, she eyed the set up. I’d left her
with a good shot. I wanted her to smile. Maybe when she sank the ball. She took
her time. She could take as long as she wanted. I was enjoying the view. She
wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. Was the room getting warmer or were
we? Then she leaned in for her shot, setting her hand on the table, taking aim.
She drew back the cue but then straightened and fished a cell phone out of her
pocket, checked the number, and took the call. She murmured a few words into
the phone, closed it, and looked at me.

“It’s time to go, hon. The twins are ready
for their story and Ginny has to get to her Colage thing.”

Sugar
. I let out a breath. Ginny is hers from a post-college marriage,
but for ten years she’s been mine, too. Fifteen going on fifty, she’s a peer
counselor for Children Of Lesbians And Gays Everywhere. The “thing” she has to
get to is their dance downstairs. She’s DJ-ing the last half but had insisted
on babysitting so we could have a date. The twins have always been both of
ours. They are five going on five and tilt my world. Just today they reminded
me that race cars made of sand are wicked awesome and listening to the ocean in
a seashell can raise the hairs on the back of your neck. When did I forget
that? The nubile young things who had migrated over to wait their turn were
clueless.

“Can’t we finish the game?” I pleaded.

She looked at the table full of balls, then at me, raising an
eyebrow and smiling. “That might take till morning. I haven’t sunk a ball in
the last half hour and you’re not doing much better.”

The pile of quarters caught my eye. “Fine. All yours,” I said to
the next generation. I put my stick in the rack.

She took my hand and pulled me to her. “You’re such a good sport.”
Then she kissed me, light and teasing, but it blew me open.

I grabbed her belt and pulled her closer. “Do that again.”

She smiled, her eyes bright with desire. “In front of them?” she
said, nodding back to our audience. “Can’t you wait? The twins will be asleep
in half an hour.”

I pulled her tighter to me so I could feel
her breasts against mine, her stomach move with each breath. I glanced at the
youngsters and winked. I kissed her, deep and serious, swaying our hips to the
music and moving my leg between hers. She moaned. The noise dropped away, the
lights dimmed.

She pulled back, needing to breathe. “Damn, you’re good,” she
said, her voice low and ragged.

“Watch your language.” I slapped her bottom playfully. She threw
her head back and laughed.

I sighed and leaned against her. “When will we be able to come to
Women’s Week instead of Family Week?”

She wrapped her arms around me. “In about, oh, thirteen years,
when the twins go off to college. If we can afford it.” She took my hand and
led me to the stairs.

“Dang, I’ll be an old lady by then,” I complained.

“But think how much more practice you’ll have
had
.”