Substitute for Love (15 page)

“Just tell me I’m right.” Holly stood up, and refused to feel pity for her aunt’s obvious distress. She watched the knotted hands twisting in her aunt’s lap and hardened her heart. She may be old, but she knows the truth. She owes me the truth.

“I won’t.”

Holly turned on her heel and left. She was practically certain she had the equation filled out correctly. How would she bridge the gap between practically and absolutely? Without certainty, she could not search for an answer to the second secret — the bigger secret, apparently. If her mother had been a lesbian, then where had Holly come from? Aunt Zinnia probably knew the answer to that as well, but getting more out of her would be difficult, if not impossible.

As she had after her last visit to her aunt’s, she drove past the house where she had lived until her mother’s death. It wasn’t raining this time, so she got out of the car and tried to open all the memories. She recalled vividly the day her mother had died, and random events earlier than that. A picnic, a good grade, a neighbor who dropped in sometimes. Disassociated recollections were easy to recall but hard to make sense of. Harder still to realistically know how old she had been at any of those times because it’s not uppermost in a child’s mind.

Her mother had been going to tell her she was gay because she wanted Holly to be aware of possibilities. Had something tipped her mother off? Holly couldn’t remember any special friend that she had been overly fond of. Was it her love of comfortable clothes — her aversion to make-up and stiletto heels? Why was she the last person to figure it out? It was far more probable that her mother had simply wanted Holly to know the truth, and live with an example of being open and proud about who you are. If so, it was a gift she had needed, because no one else had bothered to teach it to her.

She watched the house and hoped for one of her brainstorms, but nothing happened. She was about to go when a sedan went by her and turned into the driveway the four houses shared. It carefully pulled into the carport of the house that stood next to theirs.

She hadn’t been able to remember their neighbor’s name last week. It was dark, but she was sure it was a woman getting out of the car and opening her trunk. Holly took a couple of steps closer, telling herself that the slender, erect carriage, the rapid, sure movements were just a superficial resemblance. It was unlikely after all this time that it was the same woman.

The woman turned on the porch light once she was inside. When she came back for the rest of the groceries the light shone across her features. The same short-cropped hair — not as black — shaped the same regal head. Her dark face was angle on angle, and Holly almost felt as if her brain was tearing open some previously hidden area. Memory surged. She knew when this assured and happy woman laughed that it would roll over her ears like deep peals from church bells. She had laughed easily.

Her name was Audra Keenan. Audra. Audie.

She could hear her mother saying it now, with a note of affection that was … more than neighborly.

The slamming of the trunk shook Holly out of her shock. She stepped forward quickly, wanting to catch Audra before she went inside.

Audra spun to face her, then froze. “Sweet Jesus!” The bag of groceries slid slowly to the ground. “Sweet Jesus,” she said again. “Lily?”

Holly was pierced by the poignancy of it, by the wonder of learning how much she looked like her mother. Her mother had been considered lovely, and now she knew she looked like her. She could only shake her head.

“No, no, of course not,” Audra murmured. “Holly, you have to be Holly.”

The sound of her name triggered another wave of memory that left Holly faint. Old, old memories, long-buried and discarded by a child, flared into overwhelming vibrant color. Audra was there, with her mother, and they were laughing, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Audie,” she murmured.

“I lost track of you when you graduated from high school. I lost track of you…” The same firm voice, not as calm as she remembered.

“No, I lost track of you. I forgot you —”

“I didn’t exist. You didn’t belong to me. She took you.” Tears sparkled in the dim light.

“Audie,” Holly said again. The dizziness was receding.

“Come in, child, please. It’s cold out.”

She helped Audra pick up the fallen groceries while her heart seemed dance in her chest. She had only hoped to find answers. She had not expected — dreamed — she would find another mother.

PI Talking Points: SSM Draft 4

• Evidence is overwhelming that few gay couples are stable, and those that are expect and agree to outside sexual contacts. So when gay people talk about marriage they mean something different than what (folks) the rest of us usually mean.

• The (aggressors) activists here are not ordinary people, who are doing their best to live according to ages-old, time-tested morality and family (values) definition, but those who are trying to harness the power of the law to force acceptance of their agenda.

• Same-sex relations are (an affront to) a negation of the ties that bind, which are the continuation of kinships through the procreation of children.

• Homosexuals feel guilty about (what thay are) their lifestyle choices and seek the support of society to relieve their guilt. Legal marriage is just one step on (their) the gay activist’s agenda.

“Whose side are you on?”

The question upset Reyna more than she could show. She doused her anger and repeated, “Your arguments won’t be taken seriously if you don’t appear to understand that freedom of speech is available even to those with whom you disagree.”

The man across the conference table from her had been frowning for the last two minutes. “Do you think I wanted my daughter watching two lesbians getting married on her favorite comedy program?”

“Our poll results suggest that most parents would say your first and best remedy is to turn off the TV and talk to your daughter about why you did it. Parental censorship is okay, but government censorship — that’s not acceptable.”

Danforth Jackson Hobson IV had an expressive sigh. It played well on television and was no less impressive in person. He was disappointed that she did not see the obvious and was clearly saddened for the state of her immortal soul. “It’s an abomination to God, an offense to our Lord. That’s the difference between us and them. The homosexual agenda has to be stopped. Your father and I have been waging this war for two decades. We can’t afford to lose. He understands. Do you?”

The question didn’t fluster her, but his intense scrutiny was threatening to. “My job is to help you reach the people who aren’t listening. They don’t want to listen to hate and intolerance and they think that’s what you’re about. Look at the poll numbers.” She jabbed at the summary of their most recent telephone bank results. “One hint that your agenda includes limiting fundamental Constitutional rights for anybody, not just homosexuals, and the number of people who say they agree with the American Values for Family agenda drops from sixty-eight percent to thirty-three percent.”

He was still regarding her with sympathetic sadness. Apparently, her misguided sentiments were obvious. Her father would understand that her dogged attempts to soften this man’s attitudes toward homosexuality came from her own history. Grip didn’t care whether she failed or succeeded, as long as the strong partnership — and the seemingly endless flow of funds — between Hobson’s antigay-antifeminist-antichoice organization and his political machine wasn’t jeopardized. To Hobson, conservatism was a way of life. To her father it was a means to an end. As much as she hated Hobson and the words she wrote on his behalf, she at least understood that he was acting on convictions rooted in his understanding of a holy book. Her father had no convictions except those that bought, bolstered and stockpiled power.

“It happens right here,” she pointed out. “Question: Do you think that celebrities in prime time have an obligation to model good values for young viewers? Answer: Sixty-eight percent yes. Question: Should television programs be limited in the topics they can discuss during prime time? Answer: Thirty-three percent yes. Question: Should television programs be limited in the kinds of lifestyles they portray in prime time? Answer: Thirty-three percent yes.”

“I am aware of those numbers. Those people don’t realize the insidious dangers of television, which continues to surprise me. Our message is not getting through.”

“And it won’t if you continue to highlight that limits on freedom of speech and expression are your highest priorities.” Reyna felt the sting of bile in her throat. “You would be better off downplaying that aspect of your energies and instead making allies with those people who do support your —” She almost said moderate but caught herself in time. “Your views that they share most strongly.”

“You want me to lie.”

“It’s not a lie, it’s —”

“Spin, I know.” He sat back and Reyna realized his focus had left her personally and returned to the more general issues of AVF positioning and fundraising. Her job was to help him improve both. “Gays Are Scary” was a tried and true fundraising message. “But I was one of the people who objected vigorously to the way the attorney general downplayed his righteous views to appeal to the middle. I must admit, however, he has been able to do some good work for our side since.”

What Hobson would never accept, Reyna knew, was that the United States would never be what he dreamed of. There would never be a state religion, never be a universally held conservative ideology. Democracy would not become theocracy, not directly. They might think the careful plotting of her father’s political career would eventually put him in the White House. But even then the rabid Far Right would not have the fearless Christian leader they prayed for. Grip Putnam would set them aside, once used, and then do whatever it took to keep the power to himself and his trusted lieutenants. Hobson was trusted, but not with power. Never that.

She realized that the tic below her left eye had started to shiver. She rubbed her face to make it stop. She needed to end the meeting. She could only stomach being in the same room with Hobson and his convictions for so long. “Okay, we’ve agreed to these draft changes on same-sex marriage. I’ll have them done ASAP and fax them to your assistant. But we’ve got a long way to go on free speech. Let me try again.” Let me show you how to win people over with soft words that hide your real goals. “Then we can meet to discuss the draft. It will be more productive.” Let me help hide the monster that you are.

Hobson agreed and eventually left for his meeting with her father. It preceded a Putnam Institute cocktail party honoring husband and wife University of California at Irvine professors who had completed an extensive archeologically-based history of the life of Jesus. She would be required to play her father’s hostess for at least an hour, and to make small talk with people she loathed. People who believed, at their very core, that homosexuals were only acceptable two ways: converted to heterosexuality or removed from society through jail or death.

She felt the tremor in her lip as she hurried down the cold, echoing corridor to her office. She needed to be alone.

She locked her office door and went into the only place where she was guaranteed privacy — the bathroom. She locked that door, too, and turned on the faucet so her angry moans would not be overheard by the “security” equipment in her office.

The black hole was bad, worse than yesterday. It had barely been a week since her last foray to Jack’s — only a week since an explosive sexual encounter with yet another anonymous lesbian.

She huddled on the cold tile floor and knew the seals were coming off the cavern where she kept her rage and frustration. Temptation danced in her heart, as it always did. Jack’s was not the only outlet. She could go as far as West Hollywood. WeHo was too risky, she answered the thought. She had to stay at the party. Her father would want to talk about it afterward. She could not go anywhere. Not tonight. It was only three weeks until the next Ladies’

Night at Jack’s. There had to be a way to stand the longing until then.

She was suddenly still. She fantasized soft hair and her fingers easing between spreading thighs and the taste of it in her mouth. She could not go anywhere tonight. If he found out she’d devised a way to elude the private detectives he would stop it forever. She could not bear to lose the only thing that saved her sanity.

She knew how he would do it. He knew she hated him and therefore used no subtlety. He’d put it very simply. “You will get rid of the motorcycle, stop any contact with other lesbians, or the nurse goes. This is for your own good.” Maybe he’d threaten the medication, too. Either way her mother’s quality of life would plummet.

The black hole was bad. Worse than it had been in a while.

Bad because she could not stop her mind from turning the logical corner. She was a prisoner to her father’s designs and her mother was the hostage. If he ended his support she would die months, if not years sooner.

Perhaps it would be for the best. Reyna could not stop the thought and she bit down on her lip with a moan of despair. What kind of person have you become, she asked herself. What kind of daughter balances her own happiness against her mother’s very life?

I’m the kind of daughter he made me, she thought bitterly. He plays with her life and now I think I can, too.

You can’t go anywhere tonight.

She moaned again and heard the new edge to it. She wanted to feel a woman against her. She wanted to hear her laugh or cry, to share a hot day or a walk in the rain, to lie down and lose themselves for hours. But these things — conversations, dates, movies, the idea of a shared life — were out of the question. All she could sneak into her existence was sex, and she could not jeopardize that lifeline. To have at least the renewal of physical contact required no repeats, no names, no wondering about the woman she was with that night — what she might do for a living, what she might like for breakfast. Just raw, needy, to-the-point sex. Until… she choked on the inevitable. Until her mother died and her father lost his only hold on her. It could be seven more years. A good daughter would hope for seven more years, for seventy more years of life for her mother.