Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion (9 page)

She looked over the list of issues they’d given her. Again, who were they to tell her what to write? Still, the topics weren’t bad ones—combating homophobia, overcoming fear to realize one’s true identity, spirituality within the pagan community, family relations including stories with children and, Chase was glad to see, fur kids. It was the last category, though, that caught her attention. They wanted a novel about a lesbian commune.

Chase’s seemingly dormant or rather taking-a-vacation-on-the-island-of-Lesbos muse popped her head up from the lounge chair where she had been drinking a piña colada. Chase assumed she was just getting ready to wave down a waiter for another shrimp cocktail when she heard her fairly scream, “Let’s do that one!”

The Muse of Commercial Endeavor twirled around in her ergonomically correct office chair and threw a silver-plated letter opener at the Sacred Muse of the Divine Vulva, as Chase had always referred to her, who ducked just in time for it to miss her.

“Ladies, that’s enough.”

“We’ll see about that!” said the Muse of Commercial Endeavor. She got up from the chair in a fury and was coming toward the Muse of the Divine Vulva with a stapler.

Chase, deciding that Divine Vulva didn’t stand a chance against a loaded stapler, stuck out her foot and tripped Endeavor. She dropped the stapler as she flew into Vulva’s lap face first.

“Oh, I like that,” Vulva said.

Endeavor scrambled away from her. “Don’t touch me, you pervert.”

“Homophobe,” Vulva said, taking a sip of her drink and finishing off her shrimp cocktail.

“Both of you stop it. Let’s have a nonviolent discussion about the pros and cons of doing this book.”

“Which I think we should call
Living with Lesbians
,” Vulva said. She’d never been good with titles.

“That’s just what I mean. You have no marketing sense. That title makes the book sound like a self-help book for coping with lesbians,” Endeavor said.

She was right, of course, Chase thought. Endeavor was always right. Endlessly right. And when it came down to it, right was tiresome from time to time. Couldn’t she write two novels like she used to? Her mystery series wasn’t as challenging as it had been in the beginning because she was familiar now with the style and the readers’ expectations. Maybe writing a lesbian book would freshen her up a bit. Endeavor was beginning to cramp her creative juices like she was a lemon being squeezed dry.

“You know what, I’ll write both.”

“You can’t do that. It’s a stupid waste of time,” Endeavor said.

“Oh, do shut up for once. I need a break and I want to be relaxed for the next novel. I’ll write better and most likely quicker because I’ll be more motivated and not piss around so much. That’s how I worked before you came along,” Chase said. She smiled warmly at Vulva, who fairly cooed. “Ready to come out of retirement?”

Vulva hopped up and rubbed her hands together. “When do we start?”

“Right this minute.” Chase turned on her computer.

And whispering, “I will ne’er consent,” consented.—Byron

Lacey stood in the doorway of the writing studio. The dogs looked up at her sleepily—after ten in the morning they were out of commission until Gitana returned home at three. Chase was cursing under her breath: The auto-control on her tab mechanism had taken to blocking the text on the right and she didn’t know how to fix it. Donna would have to do it later, but it irritated her and an irritated writer did not do her best work while being irritated. Good God, even her thoughts were messed up—using the same word three times in one sentence was considered a felony in the editorial department.

“What’s wrong?” Lacey asked.

“My tabs are fucked up and I can’t fix it.”

Lacey leaned over. “Have you saved this?” She pointed at the computer screen.

“Yes.” Chase leaned back. Lacey’s breasts were dangerously close to her face. Ever since Lacey had become a lesbian or, as Lacey put it, “discovered her true persuasion,” her propensity for close personal contact had blossomed. If she sat next to you, it was always so close your thighs touched. When she hugged you goodbye, it was full body contact. If you said something cute, she stroked your cheek and gazed at you lovingly. It was downright creepy, but Chase didn’t want to hurt her feelings. They had been friends or, as Lacey put it, “BFFs,” best friends forever, since they were children. At least Lacey wasn’t insisting that her entire life be rewritten to accommodate her present identity—something like “I dated this guy but it was really a brainwashing of my lesbian sensibility by the all-invasion patriarchal culture of gender-difference in the mating arena.”
That
Chase could not handle.

Lacey moved the mouse around, clicking it and frowning until she corrected the situation. “How in the…” she stopped and glanced in the direction of Bud, who appeared to be fiddling around with Chase’s old laptop. “I mean how on earth did you do that?”

“Like I know. I must have hit a weird key.” Chase did not have the stunning typing skills that one would expect of a writer. She had only recently learned to write on the computer rather than in her marbled composition books, and typing and composing didn’t always jibe—especially if she was on a roll. At the end of the day, Donna went through and fixed the snafus. This system worked extremely well because they didn’t end up with a slew of proofreading at the end. “But thanks.”

Bud, it appeared, had come out of her concentrated trance and looked up from the computer. “Ciao.” She waved at Lacey, but the motion was more “go away” than “welcome!”

Lacey’s head whipped around. “Was that Italian?”

“That particular greeting has more than one meaning, you know,” Chase said, giving Bud a disapproving glance for being rude. “And I think Bud was aiming for the other end.” 

Bud glowered and jabbed at the laptop. She did have a point. Chase was often cranky when she was interrupted from her writing. Bud had probably learned it from her.

“What is she doing?” Lacey asked as she peered at the screen of Bud’s computer.

“She’s writing a story.” Chase beamed at her. If Chase couldn’t win a Newberry Award for her novels the next best thing would be for her amazing child to do so. She hoped Bud could pull it off before she turned twenty. The world appreciated the merits of the young far more than the seasoned.

Bud nodded.

“It looks like gibberish to me. Are you sure she isn’t just playing around? And why isn’t she typing with both hands?”

“Because she’s four and her hands are too small for the keyboard. The tech industry doesn’t make keyboards for toddlers,” Chase said blithely.

Bud looked smug.

“Well, if it’s a story, what does it say?” Lacey challenged.

Chase got up and went to the second desk that now graced the studio. She said, “May I?”

Bud turned the laptop so Chase could see it more easily. “It says ‘Once there was a blue bear that wandered the forest searching for others like her—big and blue and round. She searched for a long, long time and could find no one. She sat down under a big tree and began to cry great big tears and when they hit the soft forest floor they grew into blue bears. The more she cried the more bears there were until her tears were of joy rather than sadness.’”

Bud looked up at her, seeking approval. Chase smiled broadly. “That is a fabulous story. I love it and I think it’s very philosophical.” They both looked at Lacey.

“Are you sure she’s not an alien?”

“Lacey!” Chase admonished.

“I’ve never met a kid who’s as creepy smart as she is,” Lacey said, studying Bud with apparent suspicion—like if she looked long enough and hard enough Bud would turn light gray and her eyes would become large and slanted.

“She can’t help it she’s smart. Look, you’ve hurt her feelings,” Chase said, pointing at Bud, who stared at Lacey with doe-like eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Lacey reached out and gave her a hug. “Can I bribe my way out of this?” she asked as she released Bud and dug in her enormous Coach purse.

“New purse?” Chase inquired. The thing must have cost seven hundred dollars.

“Yes, isn’t it nice?” She finally located the item she was looking for. It was a red iPod a little larger than a wallet. “You can download entire audio books or podcasts or just music if you like and you can look stuff up—it hooks right into the Internet.” She handed it to Bud.

Bud looked at it in wonderment. Chase instantly coveted it. Bud saw this and held it close to her chest. “Knaht uoy.”

“Oh, I got one for you too,” Lacey said, digging out another one and handing it to Chase. Hers was lime green. Donna could give her lessons and she liked the idea of looking things up. She still meant to visit her potential new friend, Isabel, at the Main Library to do a little research. She loved libraries and she was hoping Isabel would show her the ropes of their operation, which had always been one of her secret fascinations.

“Do you like them?” Lacey asked.

“Well, of course. But I’ll need lessons,” Chase said, noticing that Bud was already fiddling around with hers. She studied Lacey for a moment, suddenly aware that Lacey didn’t drive nearly forty miles from Albuquerque into the boondocks of the East Mountains to hand out iPods. “What’s the catch?”

Lacey moved a stack of papers from the couch and sat down. “Why does there have to be a catch?” She looked around at the scuffed furniture and old leather chairs. “You know, I could order some furniture from the Pottery Barn and really spiff this place up.”

“We like it this way,” Chase said. Bud looked up from her new toy and nodded. “Now, what do I have to do?”

“Well, there is a small favor I have to ask and believe me I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t desperate, especially now that you no longer write lesbian fiction, but we need qualified and published panelists.”

“As a matter of fact, I
am
writing lesbian fiction again now. I’m doubling up.”

Lacey leaped up and raced to where Chase was sitting at her desk. She hugged her so forcefully it nearly knocked both of them to the ground. “That’s fabulous. I mean, I know you need to write for serious cash, but your dyke fans miss you. I know they do. I check out the blogs and they bemoan the loss of dyke writers. I try to tell them that they need to help support these authors by purchasing books. Somebody has to pay the bills.”

“Panelists?” Chase asked once Lacey had resumed her post on the couch.

“Yes, we’re setting up a public discussion panel on the future of lesbian fiction. We’ve got Jasmine, P.H. Kinjera, she’s the dyke philosopher, kind of like a younger version of Mary Daly, Delia, of course, taking up the erotica end, and Ellen MacNeil, who does first-person humorous coming-of-age stories. I’d like you to cover the romance end.”

Chase sat stunned. “You’ve arranged all this?”

Lacey blushed. “Well, I’ve had some help.”

“Who?”

Bud’s iPod was now playing Vivaldi,
The Four Seasons
concerto. She had managed to download already and Chase was duly impressed. She looked sheepish and turned down the volume. Chase found it odd that a four-year-old was fascinated with classical music, but she was glad Bud didn’t have a penchant for
American Idol
and dance to it in front of the television like other small humans.

“Your mother.” Lacey picked up a book on Emily Carr, a Canadian artist who painted forests. Chase had read a biography on her and discovered that she was a much-ignored artist who had done the same kind of work Georgia O’Keefe had. It had been research for the art theft part of her latest novel,
The Thief
. Chase had chosen one of Emily Carr’s paintings in hopes that it would spark interest in this amazing but little-known artist.

“Stella?” Chase said incredulously.

“She
is
a private detective. She located P.H. Kinjera and Ellen MacNeil. P.H. is flying in from San Francisco and Ellen is coming from Louisville. They’re going to stay at the house. They seemed thrilled.”

“They’re staying at Stella’s house?” Chase’s imagination was ablaze with the horrid possibilities.

“Well, it’s certainly big enough and hotel rooms are so impersonal. I thought we could take them up to Santa Fe on the train and show them the sights. They’ve never been here. You know, the little sand houses commonly referred to as pueblo-style adobes—the planning committee must have stock in ristras. God, you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, but they seem to fascinate tourists. I have no idea why. We’ll take them to see the Native Americans selling jewelry on the plaza. Now, those are some hardworking artisans that could use some financial support as well as recognition. Don’t you think?”

Chase’s mind swam. This couldn’t be real. Bud had moved on to Handel and seemed delighted with her new toy. Perhaps she was dreaming and the music was her alarm going off.

“Let’s go over this again: You want me to be on a panel, my mother is putting up two lesbian writers and we’re going to do a little sightseeing with people I’ve never met before and you bought me this souped-up iPod as payment?”

“There could be other incentives if need be,” Lacey said, looking around again to see if they were lacking some crucial item in their immediate environs. She noticed Bud plunking away one-fingered style on her computer. “Eureka” crossed her face. “And I know what it is.”

“Lacey,” Chase said.

Lacey interrupted her, “Please, please, please. I’ll send Bud to Harvard or the Sorbonne, all expenses paid, anything—an expedition to the Antarctic.”

Bud looked up at this. “No!” Chase said. “And in case you’ve forgotten Bud has a hefty trust fund, courtesy of the malpractice settlement of Bud’s conception that Stella and that skank family lawyer of ours, Owen, obtained to provide for her care, feeding, electronic devices and education.”

Bud brought out her small Curious George coin purse, looked inside and then turned it upside down and raised her eyebrows.

“You don’t get your allowance until Saturday. And if I remember correctly you owe me money for letting Jane pop my exercise ball.”

Bud pursed her lips and gave Chase the stink eye. She went back to downloading her classical library.

“How’d that happen?”

Chase was secretly relieved that their domestic issues had diverted Lacey’s attention. “Bud has boundary issues. Jane was displaying an overly keen interest in my exercise ball due to its size. Bud couldn’t stand the pining and gave in. Jane dribbled it down the hill and then attempted to bring it back up the hill and popped it in the process.”

Bud put her hands up in mock resignation, as if to say, “Dogs these days.”

“Well, anyway about the panel…” Lacey put on her best pleading face.

“I’m not good at stuff like that and if Eliza finds out, she’ll kill me. I’m supposed to be divesting myself from the lesbian stuff.”

“I’ve thought of that. We’ll put you behind a screen.”

“Oh, that looks good. I’m on a panel about the state of lesbian lit and I hide behind a screen.”

“You’ve got a point there.” Lacey stuck her face between her hands and closed her eyes, apparently deep in thought. “I know, we’ll put you in disguise.”

“What, like glue on a fake mustache?”

“No, that might offend the menopausals in the audience. You know how sensitive they are about facial hair.”

“Oh, my God, this is not happening,” Chase said, her voice gaining several octaves.

Bud made some clicking noises on the computer and then called out. Chase flew over, immediately petrified that she’d hurt herself. Lacey followed. Bud pointed at the computer screen. She had taken a picture of Chase and run it through a magazine cover program. It showed Chase with her hair turned strawberry blond and tied up with seductive stray hairs loose about her shoulders. Then she had added on groovy square glasses and a low-necked frilly dress shirt.

“That’s fucking brilliant! Oh, sorry about that, Bud.” Lacey put her hand over her mouth.

Bud shrugged and pointed at Chase, who shot her a dirty look. “Mi ginog ot raews.”

“You are not,” Chase said.

“What did she say?”

“Something about a similarity in our lexicons.”

Lacey’s brow furrowed and then she looked at the computer image. “All right, then, this is going to work. No one will recognize you.”