Beggar of Love (26 page)

She’d been about to ring Gabby’s buzzer. They were driving across the Hudson to nose out the group Mo had told her about. They would attend a meeting. Lily Ann had refused. She was afraid she would lose it.

What had occurred to her was the coincidence. Ginger had given up her occasional performances because her body hurt too much and she’d be depleted for days afterward. Then this thing with Mitch. Were they related? Of course they were related. But how?

Because something was missing in Ginger’s life? In Ginger?

Could it be that Jefferson chose Ginger because Ginger couldn’t give her what she needed? It sounded like it really was the search she loved, more than Ginger or the other women. Like she really was in love with the seduction, with getting rejected over and over and repeating all the exciting feelings with someone new. What would she do with love if she got it? Be satisfied? Turn it down? Look for more? Even her body, she thought, refused to let go with Ginger. There was a safety in holding back. Now, she saw, she’d let herself in for the biggest danger of all, losing almost thirty years together.

She was doused in a sadness as pervasive as spilled cheap perfume. She’d never needed Ginger to love her; she’d wanted only to be a beggar of love.

During the long nights of her sleepless solitude, she realized that she didn’t know whether Ginger had tried and she’d repulsed her with her wandering, or if Ginger was incapable of loving her. Of loving another woman, a man, anyone. If she found Ginger, if Ginger ever came home, could they be fixed? While they were still together, a part of her had looked forward to the blameless end of a relationship so tangled she didn’t see a way to unravel it. She should be grateful that Ginger walked out. Then there was the other question—could she even stand to touch Ginger after…after a man. It disgusted her, what men and women did. Would Ginger allow that to happen to her? She didn’t even let Jefferson go inside her because it hurt and brought her no pleasure.

On Sundays, long ago, Jefferson would open her eyes toward the bedroom window and the bright or pewter sky over the city. It was morning, it was New York; all she had to do was roll over to Ginger and she’d know she had a perfect life.

She would roll over. Ginger would stir. Jefferson would make sure her hand was warm, then cup it over the ridge of Ginger’s hip bone, one of the sexiest parts of a woman’s body. She’d learned that if Ginger moved into the palm of her hand, the signal was green. She’d press herself to Ginger’s side and move her hand firmly across her belly, then up to the far shoulder and guide her until they were mouth to mouth. Sleepy Ginger would pout into her kisses while Jefferson’s hands traveled her body. Biggest morning thrill? When Ginger’s light fingers found her back and dug in, encouraging her. Nothing like it. Nothing like it on earth. Were they still on earth?

The long dancer’s body was the earth in itself, and Jefferson the explorer. She never wanted to lose this pleasure and always stayed open to new ways, new heights where she could lead them. She heard the music of the night before and let its beat move her. Stroking today, stroking Ginger’s face, her arms, her breasts, stroking till that hip bone rose and she met it with her fingertips, stroking down, down the hollow.

Sometimes Jefferson wondered about these magical feelings. Why was she so hung up on giving them to women? What in her makeup brought lovemaking to the forefront of her life? It wasn’t orgasm for herself; something in her erupted when she made a woman come, maybe a kind of emotional orgasm.

Ginger wasn’t one to get all mushy after sex like so many women seemed to do. Declaring life-long devotion, undying love—all of that. Jefferson was, but never let it out to the other women. That was part of the reason she wished she could finish with Ginger. A feeling of closeness and devotion might wash over her, might take. Would Ginger be repelled by an emotional declaration? As much as she revered Ginger now, it was always a little dicey, knowing where Ginger’s boundaries lay. Ginger could be a miser of love.

Some lesbians, she’d found, were so afraid of her passion she had to hide it. She didn’t know if they’d had bad experiences with men—or with other women—but she’d had to temper expressions of desire around them, had to move slowly and watch for their eagerness or apprehension. Ginger had no problem with sex, when she allowed it, but emotion sent her scurrying deep inside herself.

She’d have no plan to put her mouth where her hand was, but would find herself burrowing in, getting her cheeks as wet as she could, breathing in Ginger’s sweet-tangy smell, tongue reaching into her as far as it could go. One day she indulged in something she’d never imagined doing, but Ginger’s digging fingers told her it was a right move. She thrust to the beat of the music in her head, wondering what Ginger was thinking, aware the roots of her tongue were tiring, wondering if Ginger thought at all at times like these.

She’d asked her what she thought when she was all alone on stage dancing, and Ginger had told her she was high, high, high. Her thoughts were in the heavens. Her thoughts passed way out of words. And that’s what she sounded like now, humming, keening real low, little blips of surprise at the sensations, and then it all combined into a resonant, deeply satisfied sound that made Jefferson smile against the soft, relaxed pulp of her girl.

“Orange juice and eggs for a sunny-side-up day!” she’d cried when she entered the kitchen, showered, naked, dry white towel wide like a cape so she could wrap naked Ginger and dance her to the shower. Ginger laughed when she got high-spirited like this, although she had a limited sense of humor; she wasn’t good at making laughter, but did give in to it. She’d step in the shower again with Ginger, soap her up, rinse her while Ginger did her own glorious copper hair with green Prell, French-bunning it, ponytailing it, and they’d hug and laugh, slick against each other.

Sundays shone always, even when the weather tried to dim them. She loved crossing town to walk in the park with Ginger. Glowing light shirt, blue jeans, Ginger in loose purples and blues. Years and years of Sundays ahead of them, exploring, lolling, part of the scene, happening on festivals, ball games, lovers. Sunning on the rocks, lesbian reptiles, they called themselves in their early years. Jefferson would climb a tree, Ginger would run off, she’d race to catch up and usually find her at the zoo. They’d buy ice cream, spend a while talking to the animals, everyone smiling around their streak of youth and beauty.

And dancing. Humming and dancing on the paths, on the Great Lawn, Sheep’s Meadow. Dancing past the cabs at Eighty-sixth Street, dancing on the bridges, dancing in the fountain, dancing with the Alice in Wonderland statues. It felt like they were still making love Sundays when they used to go out, wherever they went. It was always summer on Sundays, even when they ice-skated at the rink.

She tried not to think about that weekday she came home early and the lovely light-skinned boy Ginger danced with came out of the bedroom. He’d been trying on Ginger’s outfits to dance a women’s part in a drag ballet. She wouldn’t go to see the ballet with Ginger. She’d felt something wrong there. Felt some airy attraction between them. It was the curse of infidelity, she learned that day, to suspect, to worry, to have adoration turn to jealousy in a moment and never go away.

She thought she wanted no walls. But she put them up as often as Ginger, and she didn’t know how to knock them down. Clouds over their park, spoiled juice on Sundays. She’d block it from her mind till she saw Ginger flirting with the fairies at a bar. What did she expect? Ginger’s father and little brothers doted on her growing up—she still liked the attention of men. That didn’t mean she wanted to be with one, that Jefferson wasn’t enough.

She’d given Ginger everything she had. Except for the times she frittered it all away.

Maybe she should give it up. Let him have her Ginger. It was obvious that’s what Ginger wanted. She shook her head, buzzed the door for Gabby, or Amaretto, to let her in. In the elevator she thought that what Ginger wanted wasn’t obvious at all. She had known this woman—if she had known her at all—for thirty years, and nothing about Ginger had signaled this move. Unless she was looking for someone who would—could—appreciate being loved. Unless she was tired of Jefferson’s resistance.

Gabby’s partner Amaretto was a nonstop creative person, a costume designer by trade, and she had run out of room to display her crafts in their Brooklyn apartment. The walls were hung with masks, the floors dotted with costumes on dressmakers’ forms, the furniture draped with patches of remnants that would have made great selections in a fabric shop. Gabby had a big blue recliner and a wide-screen TV. She aimed the remote at a Yankees game and turned the set off, lowering the recliner at the same time.

Amaretto and Gabby had both grown heavy over the years of inventive cooking they did for each other and for their friends. They were known as the gourmet cooks of the crowd. They had a warm, indulgent, laughing relationship and were always bubbling over each other’s words and stories. Gabby had stopped drinking before Jefferson—maybe that had made a difference.

“Is that new?” she asked Gabby.

“No,” Gabby replied. “I bought it when it first came out in ’97. Amaretto had it framed for my birthday.”

They stood arm in arm under a NY Liberty Team Show Stoppers poster.

“This is almost as nice as the Lavender Julies Softball poster Angela’s Tam made up at the print shop,” she teased.

Gabby laughed. “I don’t know how you stand to look at that thing on your wall.”

“What a roster,” Jefferson said. “Sophia Witherspoon, Kym Hampton, Teresa Weatherspoon—Rebecca Lobo!” These were breathtaking athletes. “Too bad our team is—”

“Sucky.”

“That’s not true anymore,” Amaretto called over the kitchen counter where Jefferson had heard her loading dishes and glasses into the dishwasher with an occasional clink. Now Amaretto switched on the dishwasher and the apartment filled with the sound of rushing water.

“They were losing for so long,” Gabby complained.

Jefferson had to stop herself from saying, “They’re not the only ones.” She was remembering all the times she came home from teaching or coaching and Ginger was home too, working in the kitchen, lying on the couch listening to music, or even watching the evening news. Each time it had given her a sense of permanency and rootedness she longed to hold on to forever. Her grand nemesis, her Achilles heel, was herself, so unable to give up cheating. What could she do to make up for that? She had offered more than once to support Ginger. She had the interest from her grandparents’ trust fund to supplement her teaching salary.

Of course Ginger had declined. She had always clung to her independence as if afraid that Jefferson wanted to quash it. She thought she loved Ginger’s independence. Maybe Ginger had sensed something about her that she didn’t know.

She almost laughed to think of all she didn’t understand about Ginger. How she adored wearing fancy flip-flops at home. And god-awful plastic shoes to parties or the bar. They were still in Ginger’s closet, an exasperating part of Ginger she’d never understood, but loved. Ginger had taken to sneaking new shoes into the house because Jefferson always laughed at the sight of them. Pinks and purples and lime green and coral. Flowered and strapped and sometimes rhinestone-studded. She’d tease Ginger about having drag-queen feet, but she shouldn’t have. To her, the shoes were a femme decoration that filled her with amused appreciation, but to Ginger, this must be the way she coddled her feet, treated them for their gracefulness and coordination and pain. A dancer’s feet were her glory and foundation.

“Yo, Jef, where’d you go?” Gabby said.

“Sorry. I was remembering.”

“Lunch is made,” Amaretto said. “Enough for all of us.”

“Thank you.” She gave Amaretto an enthusiastic hug. “But I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Not Jersey City?” Gabby asked.

“There’s an office for JONAH, but I couldn’t find a street address.”

Amaretto said, “That leaves us with the Paras’ summer place.”

“Up the Hudson. In Treadwell.”

“We’ll ask around,” Amaretto said. “If we don’t find anything, we’ve had a nice picnic outing up the Hudson.”

“I checked an online phone book. Nothing listed for Para. Who knows if that’s even the parents’ name.”

She’d rented a car for the day, and Gabby had to explore it thoroughly before getting in. “You think we’re going off-road?” Gabby asked.

“I have no clue. I rented the SUV in case.”

“Man, I hope so. We’re ready for it. Am, can we have one of these some day?”

“Sure, after you drag me to Cartier to buy me a diamond ring.”

“This would be more practical.”

Amaretto laughed. “In Wyoming.”

“Isn’t that over the county line?”

“Yo, did you catch my girl Mariska on the tube this week?”

Amaretto laughed. “Here comes the
Law and Order:
SVU fan club,” she said.

“Hey, Gab,” Jefferson teased, “I could watch Hargitay all night, every night, but D’Onofrio and Erbe are sooo much cooler in
Criminal Intent.
They actually think.” And the two were off on their usual running argument about the merits of the shows.

Bantering with these friends made the drive very much like going on a picnic, and Jefferson actually found herself taking pleasure in the ride—when she wasn’t worrying about what they would find in Treadwell. If they learned where the Paras’ place was and if Ginger was there, then what? Would she barge in to interrupt them in bed? Her girl’s hands on someone else? No, she didn’t want to see that. Sit in a living room talking about it? She would be speechless. Slit Mitchell’s tires and leave hate notes?