Something True (5 page)

Monsters.
Tate looked at Maggie, whose face was set like something carved in stone—the kind of stone that gets worn away by rain…or tears.
Go ahead and say “assholes,”
she thought. But she said nothing, resting her hand on Maggie's shoulder for a moment before sitting down at the table.

“Why wouldn't they just meet us at Out in Portland?” Maggie asked no one in particular. “How can they close it down without even seeing it? They don't even know what they're doing. They don't know who we are.”

Lill put a hand on Maggie's arm.

“Your energy feels unstable.”

Lill was dressed in loose-fitting yoga pants and a green sweatshirt embroidered with hummingbirds. Her gray-brown hair was plaited into her signature braids, like the ears of a donkey. It was a fine outfit for an athletic mom about to take her children for a picnic in Forest Park, but not right for a business meeting. Even Maggie had put on a rather misshapen suit, and Tate had starched a white shirt for the occasion.

“You need to meet love with love,” Lill went on. “And tell them you've hired Simon, Bristen, and Curtis.”

Tate and Maggie looked at each other and then at Lill.

“Portland's biggest law firm,” Lill said, as though every coffee shop owner had them on speed dial. “The bulldogs of the West.”

“They just won't join us in our space,” Maggie said.

“They're probably afraid we'll knife them,” Tate said.

“You wouldn't!” Maggie looked up.

“Of course, I'm not going to knife anyone,” Tate said.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat. A young man in a shiny gray suit and purple tie had appeared in the doorway. A second later, he was joined by an older man with a mustache and a suit that looked like it had been borrowed from his grandfather's funeral.

“Dayton.” The man in the shiny suit stuck out his hand.

Maggie remained motionless, her arms crossed.

Lill said, “I'm sorry. I don't shake hands. It disrupts the chi.”

Reluctantly, Tate shook his hand.

“Craig Bryant.” The older man shook Tate's hand. “Ms. Enfield, our commercial real estate development consultant, will be just a moment.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence. Craig flipped through a binder of spreadsheets. Dayton tapped his phone, glared at the screen, and then scrolled quickly through screen after screen of text, shaking his head as though he could actually read the words flying beneath his thumb.

“So, how y'all doing?” Dayton said finally, as though silence might literally kill him.

“Seeing as you're trying to destroy one of the great community resources in Portland and ruin a business that's been flourishing since 1950…” Maggie said.

Tate noted a bit of exaggeration—both the “1950” part and the “flourishing” part—but she kept quiet.

“You haven't even heard our plans,” the older man grumbled.

“I read the paperwork,” Maggie added. “I know you want to destroy a lesbian-owned, woman-centered business in favor of some corporate big-box store.”

Dayton laughed. “Sandwich Station is boutique fast food.” The fluorescent light rippled off the arms of his suit as he fidgeted with his phone.

“It's a male-owned, male-dominated corporate scam that's filling the pockets of the richest rich!” Maggie's voice trembled.

“You can hardly call Out in Portland Coffee woman-owned.” Craig sounded as somber as his suit, but it didn't sound like grief—certainly not grief for Out in Portland. He sounded more like a bored funeral director. “I've looked at your books. The landlord owns the space, the fixtures. You owe him money. I'd say that building owns you.”

“You're right. It owns me because I care about the people in it,” Maggie said, then glanced at the door behind Tate. The men too had fallen silent. Dayton put down his phone. The commercial real estate development consultant had arrived. Tate turned.

“Good morning. I'm Laura Enfield,” the woman said.

Tate did not know if her jaw literally hit the ground or if the connection between her brain and her body simply short-circuited, leaving her frozen in place, unable to feel either her body or the floor beneath her feet.

The woman had looked pretty and polished at the Mirage, but now she looked like a first lady, impeccably dressed in a cream-colored suit and high, sharp heels. Apparently she could afford to leave diamond necklaces in the apartments of her one-night stands because her neck was now adorned with an opal so large if filled the hollow at the base of her throat. A similar jewel adorned each ear, visible before the upsweep of her blond hair.

For one second, Tate thought she saw a look of terror cross the woman's face. Then she was certain she had imagined it, as the woman shook Tate's hand, her face devoid of recognition. In the corner of her mind, Tate wondered if her life was about to become one of those action films in which everyone had an evil doppelganger or perhaps an indie film in which the well-meaning barista descends into madness, realizing, at the end, that all her friends were figments of her imagination. She glanced at Maggie and Lill, but they were still there.

“Ladies, shall we begin?” Laura Enfield said. She pulled up a chair and placed a leather portfolio on the table.

“Mrs. Davidson here seems to think this is some kind of hostile corporate takeover,” Craig said, pointing his thumb at Maggie. “She thinks…”

The woman, Laura, lifted two fingers off her pen, and he stopped in mid-sentence. She was clearly the boss. It was hot. Tate did not want to admit that. She did not want to admit that her eyes had just followed the curve of Laura's neck, down to the opal, to the swell of her breasts beneath the lapels of her suit, all the way down to the tips of her, now, French-manicured nails. She was glad that Maggie and Lill did not have Vita's mind-reading powers. What kind of lesbian feminist met the corporate overlord and thought,
I'd like a piece of that
?

Laura explained the sale in clear, concise terms. The building would be sold. An outside company would handle the sale of fixtures, probably at auction. Everyone working at the coffee shop would be given an interview at Sandwich Station, the anchor store that would turn their dusty brick building into the City Ridge Commercial Plaza. The men listened, folding their hands and watching her attentively. Even Maggie and Lill seemed drawn in by her authority.

“We have contacted a few other businesses,” Laura went on. “Cell phone retailers, a tanning salon, a dental clinic. After renovations, we will be able to use four thousand square feet of ground floor for commercial real estate. The upstairs, we'll convert to lofts and flex space.”

“It's an awesome project,” Dayton added, snapping his phone closed to punctuate the remark. “You can be right in the front line working at Sandwich Station. Most people get promoted to lead worker within six months.”

“You're wasting your time,” Craig droned. “They think we're corporate bastards.”

Laura made a slight gesture of her head that seemed to say,
I didn't give you permission to talk.

“We are the corporate bastards,” she said. “From their perspective, that's absolutely right.” She faced Tate, her eyes resting just to the left of Tate's forehead. Tate thought she caught a hint of the sad, faraway look she had seen in Laura's face the night they had spent together. “I realize you are not going to be happy about this. None of you are.” She looked at Maggie and Lill. “But keep our offer in mind. Sandwich Station has a three-tiered management structure which allows for significant professional growth. They offer full benefits, including health, dental, and 401(k) to anyone who works 20 hours or more. And this isn't the kind of shop where managers are instructed to keep their employees at 19.5 hours. They want to contribute to the community. They want to strengthen the job base of the communities they work with.”

“By closing down a business that's been serving Portland for years?” Maggie asked.

“Since 1920,” Lill added. “We're going to contact the historical registry, by the way.”

At this rate, Tate thought, they'd be serving Jesus coffee by the end of the meeting.

“Out Coffee is a landmark,” Tate said. “People came to Out with their parents, and now they're coming with their kids or grandkids. It's not
just
a coffee shop.”

“I'm sorry,” Laura said.

“Are we done here?” Craig asked. He sounded like he had been doing this for decades.

“Wait,” Tate said.

She had to buy time. Out Coffee was on the line. Maggie was on the line. Her own livelihood was on the line. And the woman…the woman was so hard and cold and beautiful and yet, when her eyes did finally meet Tate's, Tate saw something soft and lost.

“Where is your company from?” Tate asked.

“Alabama.”

“Do you do a lot of business in Portland?”

“This is our first Portland acquisition.”

“Do you spend a lot of time in Portland?” Tate pressed.

“No. Not a lot.”

“So you don't know Portland.” Tate put her elbows on the table, leaning in, trying to hold Laura's gaze.

“We've done all the market research you need,” Craig said.

“I don't think market research from Alabama is enough,” Tate said, still watching Laura.

“Thank you, barista, but I think we know our business,” Craig said.

Laura turned to her subordinate.

“That's enough, Craig. And I'm not going to say that again. I'm sorry, Ms. Grafton. Go on.”

“Portland is unique,” Tate began. “It's not every city in America. And I don't think a chain of sandwich shops, boutique or not, is going to be the anchor you want. Right now the hottest restaurant in Portland is Pok Pok. It's four tents attached to a Victorian house and heated with propane lamps. They serve boar's collar. People wait for hours in the rain to get in. See, Portland doesn't want Pok Pok cleaned up. That's what your market research isn't going to show you. Put that restaurant in a nice building with good lighting, and Portland will lose interest.”

“What are you suggesting?” Laura asked.

“Keep Out in Portland Coffee. Out Coffee is your anchor store. Out Coffee is the kind of place Portland loves. Gritty. Imperfect. Human.”

“I'm not at liberty to make any decisions about what stays or goes in the City Ridge Commercial Plaza,” Laura said, but she seemed to be considering something.

“Who is?” Tate pressed.

“Our corporate office. The board.”

Tate was aware of Maggie and Lill watching her intently.

“Give me a week.” Tate held Laura's eyes. “Let me show you Portland. Let me show you everything your market research can't tell you.” She didn't know if she was pleading for Out Coffee or herself. Either way, she felt the adrenaline rise in her blood. “I'll show you the underside. The B-side. Everything that Portland loves. And if you agree, if you see what I'm saying…”
If you see me
, she thought. “Talk to your corporate office. That's all I'm asking. Just talk to them.”

Dayton and Craig protested, but Laura rose in one smooth motion, extending her hand to Tate, holding on for just a second longer than dictated by business necessity.

“All right. One week,” she said.

Tate had just mounted her bike when she caught sight of Laura hurrying across the parking lot of the Corporate Solutions building. She waited, the bike rumbling beneath her. A sensible woman would tear off in a cloud of exhaust, she thought. She did not move.

“Tatum Grafton?” Laura peered at the opaque surface of Tate's helmet visor.

Tate said nothing.

“Tatum, is that you?”

Reluctantly, Tate removed the helmet.

“Thank you.” Laura exhaled.

“For what?”

“You could have given me hell in there, and you didn't.”

Up close, and in the bright light, Laura looked older, closer to forty than the twenty-seven or twenty-eight Tate had guessed initially. A few fine lines creased the skin around her eyes, making her even more beautiful in Tate's estimation. Tate did not know what to say.

“I don't expect you to forgive me for all this.” Laura gestured vaguely toward the office park behind them, then ran her hand over her face, brushing away an invisible strand of hair. “You have every right to hate me. I'm not going to pull that ‘please see me as a person, I'm only doing my job' crap, because that
is
crap. We are our jobs. I am my job. But just in case you don't despise me entirely, I have to be clear with you. What happened…” She paused as though English had suddenly become a second language, and she was searching for words. “…the other night…that can never happen again.”

The hope that had previously kept Tate from roaring off in a cloud of exhaust died.
Of course
“what happened” could never happen again. Hadn't Abigail taught her that? Whatever seemed good and special to Tate would seem paltry and inferior to the women she liked.

“I can't…do that again. I can't ever.” Laura paused as if waiting for Tate to speak.

Tate said nothing. She was thinking about Abigail and the oboist. Abigail and Duke. Laura and her perfect first-lady face.

“It wouldn't be ethical,” Laura added. “You need to know, if you're doing this Portland thing because…” She glanced over her shoulder again. “If you are doing this because…I can't ever do that again. Do you understand me, Ms. Grafton?”

“It's just Tate,” Tate said.

A
nd then what?” Vita asked.

It was four in the afternoon. Behind Tate, the door to the Mirage stood ajar, letting in a beam of sunlight that illuminated features of the bar Tate preferred not to think about.

“This place is filthy,” Tate said, running her hand over one of the stools.

Vita waved the comment away. “It's patina.”

“I think it's grenadine.” She wiped the seat with a cocktail napkin.

“You're evading.” Vita leaned her elbows on the bar directly across from Tate. She had given up the pretense of preparing the Mirage for the night's drinkers. “Talk. You go to this meeting. You find out your mystery girl is Maggie's nemesis. Does Maggie know?”

“No. And you can't tell her!”

“Your secret's safe.” Vita winked, fake eyelashes flicking through her rocker bangs. “Just tell me everything. So after the meeting, she runs to you saying, ‘Tate, I can't. I can't.' And you say?”

“I told her I still thought Out Coffee could be the anchor store she's looking for.”

“What about the sex?” Vita threw up her hands. “What about ‘that thing we did'?”

“I said okay.”

“Okay what?” Vita leaned in. Today's animal pattern was a purple leopard print that looked a little bit like eyeballs.

Tate tugged Vita's sleeve. “Nice. Colorful.”

Vita pulled her sleeve away. “You said okay to what?”

“She said she couldn't sleep with me again,” Tate said, “and I said okay. Then we arranged to meet at Out Coffee tomorrow, and I said okay.”

“You're hopeless.” Vita pretended to bang her head against the bar. “Are you not my best friend? Have I not tried to educate you about women?”

Educate
. It wasn't quite the word Tate would have chosen.

Vita leapt off the stool. “Cairo!” she called to the line cook, who was also her latest fling.

The beautiful, Egyptian-looking woman appeared from the back. Tate wondered again if she was actually Egyptian or if “Cairo” was just an apt nickname and she was, in fact, a Latina girl from Gresham or Lincoln City. It did not seem polite to ask, but Tate always found the thought vaguely distracting. It made her wonder if the quintessential New Yorker might earn the nickname Nyc. The perfect Californian, Callie. Or the perfect Portlander, Portlandra. Perhaps she herself was Portlandra. She glanced down at her scuffed boots, cargo jeans, and leather jacket. What made her think she could woo a woman like Laura Enfield?

“Cairo, if you had a hot, one-night stand with a woman…” Vita began.

“I did, and then she put me to work in the kitchen stuffing jalapeno poppers,” Cairo teased.

“Well imagine she disappeared while you were sleeping and left nothing behind except a giant diamond.”

“Oh, Tate's girl,” Cairo said.

Tate put her chin on her hands. That was Vita for you. She didn't let anyone suffer in isolation. Maggie called it the “solidarity of the lesbian community.”

“Thanks, Vita.” Tate shook her head without any real ire.

Vita ignored her. “Let's say, the girl shows up again at a business meeting. Then afterward she runs across a parking lot.”

“She didn't run,” Tate said.

“She probably ran. She was running in her heart,” Vita said, as though she had been there to witness it. “Then she says, ‘Tate, I can't. I can't.' What does that mean?”

Cairo giggled. “It means ‘I want to.'”

Tate frowned at Vita. “Didn't you drag me to a rally once and make me chant ‘No means no' for two hours?”

“Of course no means no.” Vita crossed her arms, bracelets jangling. “But ‘Oh Tate, I can't' means something entirely different.”

“What does it mean?” Tate sighed.

“I'd say it means ‘Please.'”

Vita grabbed Cairo, who was heading back toward the kitchen, and pulled her close. “Please kiss me and throw me over that monster of a Harley you sexy butch thing.” She kissed Cairo. Then, still holding Cairo around the waist, she glanced back at Tate. “You could have done that or you could have thrown the diamond at her and told her to call you when she came out. But I wouldn't do that because if it all tanks, you can always pawn the rock.”

Tate turned to stare out the door at the slice of sunlight pouring in off Division Street.
With friends like these
, she thought.

The next day, Tate slipped into work quietly, trying to listen for any snippet of conversation that suggested that gossip from the Mirage had reached the coffee shop. Thankfully, all seemed calm in the shop even if her heart was racing. It was bad enough that she had only one week to convince Laura to save Out Coffee. She had one week—she barely dared to hope—to see if there was some truth to Vita's theatrics. And one week in which she absolutely could not let Maggie find out that the commercial real estate developer who was trying to ruin her life had been, for one strange, magical night, Tate's lover.

Tate busied about the stockroom, still listening, then served the morning rush. Then, in a lull between customers, she rounded up Maggie and Krystal. They stood in a huddle beside the espresso machine. Tate put her hands on both their shoulders as she imagined a coach would when preparing her star players for the big game…or imminent death.

“We're not just selling Portland,” Tate said. “We're selling Out in Portland Coffee. We need Laura Enfield…”

“That horrible woman.”

Tate guessed Maggie wanted to say “bitch,” but several decades of feminist consciousness-raising stopped her.

“Laura Enfield,” Tate said, “whether we like her or not, needs to see that this is an amazing, productive, profitable business. It's like her sandwich shop only better. She's coming by at one p.m. I want us to be ready. First, I want to take down the Mariah Lesbioma dioramas.”

“We just put her show up,” Maggie protested. “She'll be devastated if we take it down. She's worked on it for years.”

“Years she spent in the loony bin,” Krystal said, readjusting one of the pigtails she had put in her short, pink hair.

“Mariah is emotionally vulnerable,” Maggie said.

“We'll put it back up when Laura leaves, but we can't have it here now.” Tate looked at the collage pieces on the wall. “They look like vaginas.”

“They're
supposed
to look like vaginas,” Maggie protested. “Mariah is reclaiming the gynic power, the female symbol. Every capitol building in America is a phallus. Mariah's art says it is time for the female form to take its true place in art.”

The shellac that held the collages together glistened. Inside
Vagina Denta #13
, Mariah had glued a plastic ball from a gumball machine. Inside it, a photo of George Bush leered out.

“They're terrifying,” Tate said. “Krystal, be careful when you take them down. Maggie, you call your women's group and see how many people we can get in here around one p.m. I want every seat occupied. I want the coffee pouring. Let's show Laura she would be crazy to close Out in Portland.”

At twelve thirty, Tate had never loved Out in Portland more. Maggie knew everyone in Portland, and half of everyone had filed into the store. By the window, a group of graduate students spread their books out. In the corner, Lill's husband plucked a gentle tune on his acoustic guitar while Sobia and Bartholomew sat listening and munching on flaxseed biscuits. Every two minutes, the door chime announced a new customer. Meanwhile Lill and Maggie swirled chocolate hearts on every mocha, a graceful, four-armed, two-headed, bighearted coffee-making machine—just like they had been when they were a couple and had run Out Coffee together.

Tate smiled. It might not work out. Laura might not be moved. Out Coffee might close. Laura would probably never again press her sumptuous body against Tate's. But at least she would see this. Portland at its best. Out Coffee at its best. People at their best. Tate stepped into the bathroom to collect herself so she too could be at her best. She took a quick look in the mirror. It wasn't a gorgeous face, but it was the face of a good woman.

Then she heard the sound of metal breaking, followed by Krystal's scream.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Tate froze. Krystal was sitting on the floor behind the counter, waving a book in one hand and a wrench in the other and swearing prodigiously. Maggie stood above her, her arms wrapped around herself protectively, saying, “I appreciate that you are trying.” From beneath the sink, a torrent of water poured onto the floor. A cataract. Much more water than ever escaped the sluggish faucet above.

“What happened?” Tate ran over. She plunged her hand into the stream of water, reaching for the shutoff valve, just as Krystal yelled, “Don't, it's hot!”

It was scalding. Tate pulled her hand back.

“Get a bucket. What did you do, Krystal?”

Krystal shoved the book at Tate and ran for the back room. Tate looked at the cover.
A Woman's Guide to Home Repair
. It was her book, purchased months ago when she had come up short for rent, and her landlord had asked her to fix the splintered molding in Pawel and Rose's apartment in exchange for the shortfall.

“Krystal!” Tate yelled.

The line of coffee customers had bunched up at the counter. Several were leaning over to get a better look at the deluge.

“Can I help the next person in line?” Maggie called, waving her hands as though she could distract the customers from the disaster behind the counter. “I can still get you a cup of brewed coffee.”

No one was listening except Lill.

“It'll be fine. It's nothing. Just get a bucket,” Lill said.

“Don't tell me what to do.” Maggie was starting to pace, which was never a good thing. “You always tell me what to do, but you're not here when it all falls apart.”

“I'm present now,” Lill said, with a huff. “I am here with you, but your anger is separating us.”

“Lill!” Tate shot her a look. She mouthed,
Go away.

“She asked me to help,” Lill snapped. “I could have told her not to let that girl back there.”

“Krystal is not ‘that girl.' She's family,” Maggie protested.

“Yeah. I'm family.” Krystal had returned with a coffee mug instead of a bucket.

Tate plunged her hand into the scalding water again and felt for the valve. It was gone. She had to agree with Lill on this one. Krystal should never have been allowed behind the counter with a wrench.

“Krystal,” Tate called. “What happened to the valve?”

“It broke.” Krystal knelt at her side, pink pigtails sticking out of her head like antennas.

“What broke it?”

“You fix things.” Krystal's lip was trembling. “You told me I should take responsibility for myself and learn new skills and…” A tear slid down her cheek, taking a stream of black mascara with it. “…it was your book and Maggie says it's empowering.”

“What is?” Tate's hand stung from the hot water.

The customers had moved away from the counter as the water began to run in rivulets across the floor.

“Plumbing,” Krystal said. “The book said I'd be more self-confident if I maintained my own home. It said feminists should clean their own sink traps.”

“Krystal, you're supposed to be studying for the GED, and this is not a sink trap, and this is not your house, and you've seen the Pink Pages, you just hire a lesbian plumber. That's all the empowerment you need.”

“I just thought I could do it on my own.” Krystal's eyes were going puffy. “I just wanted to help you! My dad would show me how to fix it. My dad would have wanted me to do it.”

“Your dad is doing twenty to life. Your dad could turn this wrench into a switchblade.” Tate felt bad as soon as she spoke. It was only the pain in her scalded hand that made her honest. The mascara streamed from both Krystal's eyes now. “I'm sorry, Krystal. Please, don't cry. I know you were trying to help. Now, just get a real bucket. We'll fix it. Find the Pink Pages. I think there's a copy by the front door.”

Krystal disappeared again. Tate grabbed her wrench and made one more go at the deluge. This time she was able to pinch the metal and turn the valve, reducing the torrent to a drip and then to nothing. She was soaking.

The customers who knew Maggie were filing to the edges of the store, trying to look engaged in the seascape photographs that Tate had hung in place of Mariah Lesbioma's vagina art. The customers who did not know Maggie were heading for the exit. Maggie had begun to dab at her eyes with a napkin.

Lill was following her around behind the counter saying, “Maggie, Namaste. Namaste!” It sounded like something one might yell at a terrier.

On the other side of the counter, young Bartholomew had taken advantage of his parents' distraction and was emptying the sugar canister into his mouth. And right in front of the counter, little Sobia had taken off her pants, walked up to a stranger, grabbed the woman's hand, and said, in a shrill voice, “Bartholomew has a pee-pee because he's a boy, and if he doesn't want a baby, he's going to put a condo on his pee-pee.” She pointed at her pink underwear. “But I don't have a pee-pee because I'm a girl.”

Only it wasn't a stranger. No. It was Laura who knelt down in the water so she could face Sobia directly and say, “That's very interesting. Is your mommy or daddy here?”

The rest of the afternoon was less disastrous but no more profitable. For one thing, Tate had envisioned spending the day alone with Laura, but Laura had brought her entourage. Laura, Tate, Dayton, and Craig piled into Laura's rental car, a large, cream-colored Sebring.

Tate had decided the first day should be a tour of Portland's most eccentric coffee shops as well as a few empty strip-mall Starbucks. She wanted to show Laura that Portland loved its locally owned shops and that the big national chains did not have the same pull.