Beggar of Love (12 page)

Jefferson told her, “I’m having a heart attack, girl. You’re attacking my heart.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Who are you? You make me wonder—who am I?”

“Come on home. I’ll show you.”

Ginger looked around again. “Do I belong here?”

She saw what Ginger saw. A small, crowded room where cigarette smoke was as loud as the music, the frequent laughter sounded brittle, as if alcohol was parching the drinkers, and the women looked strained, like this was all such hard work. Her gloom threatened to reappear. She was relieved when Ginger followed her outside, relieved that she didn’t see any cabs, relieved at the silence and the darkness and the cold that caught and intimately mingled the vapored breaths from their mouths, relieved to be with Ginger Quinn, the woman she would make it her business to be with until, she clearly remembered thinking that first night, death do us part.

Jefferson stood naked, feeling strong and powerful. The curtains of her dormitory window were parted slightly so that she could see the morning beyond them. It was her junior year. The fall light was golden, buoyant, the day so intensely clear that everything shone with the remnants of the night’s moisture. She could hear a few cars out early Saturday below on the street. In the suburbs of New York leaves would be burning; here in the city chestnuts roasted in a cart somewhere on the avenues. Was it possible winter wouldn’t come this year? The city seemed to waver before her eyes, so magical, so full of promising corners and storefronts and signs she felt confused and excited at all the choices, like riches, before her.

A day to celebrate, she thought, full of her cheerfulness, her youth, her powers. She jogged down the hall to the communal bathroom. It smelled of mint toothpaste and disinfectant. The tile floor of the shower stall was cold under her bare feet, but she bore this discomfort stoically, like all others. Under a sharp hot spray she lathered and shampooed her athlete’s body vigorously, roughly, from short hair to well-fleshed but neatly formed breasts, to solid muscled legs.

“Jefferson!”

Ginger’s voice filled her with a warmth as steamy as the shower. They continued to spend hours in each other’s arms imagining their lives together after graduation, recordings of music she borrowed from her parents’ collection playing softly, music that Ginger loved but had never owned, music she’d heard while learning dance. Over and over Jefferson dwelt on how perfect Ginger was for her, how lucky she was to have found her. But at times she’d feel frightened at how irritable she could be with Ginger and by her own compulsive flings with other women. Today she felt so good she only chuckled. Marriage, as she thought of moving in together after graduation, would cure her of those urges, she was sure of it.

She turned the shower off. “This is going to be one damn fine day, Ginge.”

She could hear Ginger’s toothbrush.

“You want to climb the Empire State Building with me?” Jefferson called out. “Or how about taking a boat trip around Manhattan?” Dry, robed, she joined Ginger at the sinks. “What a face,” she told her. “You know you’re my princess, don’t you?”

“Oh, Jefferson.”

“Did I make you blush?” She stepped back and bowed, robe and all. “Would my princess accompany me to the park so I can count your royal freckles?”

Ginger smiled broadly at her in the mirror, green eyes filled with light. “Again?”

“I didn’t finish last time.” Her spirits were so high she had to bounce up and down. Shoot baskets into the toilet booths. Surely her blood was being carbonated with excitement as it coursed through her body. It’d call for a lot of wine to level her out this day. She wished she could hug Ginger hard, but they’d be drummed out of the PE Department in an hour if they got caught.

Ginger turned to her, brushing her shoulder-length coppery hair, a long-fingered hand curved around her brush. The occasional, prized touch of those hands was a gift Jefferson had found in no other woman, including those more generous with touching. Ginger shook her head, eyes amused and sad at the same time. “You’ve forgotten midterm exams are next week.”

She had. “Hell, we’re upperclassmen, we don’t have to study.” She kept smiling and began to clip her nails. She enjoyed her hands and thought they looked solid and capable. She didn’t want Ginger to worry about her grades, didn’t want Ginger to think she was no good, and last night was to have been the final party before she buckled down. She had to get her grade-point average up this semester if she wanted to graduate on time.

“Sure we do. We’ll make it fun, Jef. We can go study in the park. I’ll help you.”

“No, baby, you have your own work to do. I’ll get by. I always do.” She gave Ginger what she imagined was her most reassuring, charming smile.

Ginger, from a working-class Bronx family, had come to college with hardly an ounce of self-confidence. Jefferson, who’d grown up with well-to-do parents almost two hours north of the Bronx, had learned to exude confidence and prosperity whether she felt them or not. And she knew her own self-possession always reassured Ginger.

Half an hour later Ginger was in Jefferson’s arms. Always, Jefferson thought, hands firmly, familiarly caressing Ginger, the touch of this woman was like winning the World Series. “You take my breath away.”

Ginger moved her face for a kiss. “I love you.”

“Open the window.” Jefferson reluctantly let her go. “Tell me you can resist a day like this.”

Ginger pulled a long Hunter T-shirt over her head and crossed to the window in nothing but that and her flip-flops. Jefferson had been astonished to see the floor of Ginger’s closet covered in rubber beach thongs of every hue. Ginger had explained about foot freedom, as she called it. When she was in her room, not dancing, not walking far, she loved to treat her feet to barefoot freedom and at the same time protect them from harm. Hence, the flip-flops. She massaged her feet with perfumed lotions, soaked them, and decorated them with flip-flops of every color and design she could find in Woolworths, Kresge’s, May’s, and corner drugstores. Ginger pressed her forehead against the screen while Jefferson admired her profile. She could see Ginger inhale a deep breath of the air. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Your accent’s showing,” she said, moving to Ginger.

The occasional harshness that remained in Ginger’s accent grated on Jefferson, who’d been raised to sound like a class, not a location, but she thought she was good at keeping the irritation from her corrections. Ginger wanted to succeed out there in the world, after all.

“Sorry,” Ginger said quickly. “Gorgeous,” she repeated, this time in open tones.

A warm breeze seemed to swirl into the room and wrap around them both. Jefferson was dressed in a faintly pink oxford cloth shirt, a red V-neck sweater, sharply pressed white slacks, and white moccasins. She stepped behind Ginger and pressed herself full-length to her back, reaching around to touch her breasts. “We could go out to Long Island Sound and rent a sailboat.”

Ginger turned and moved her eyes down her lover’s body. “You’re irresistible, that’s the problem.”

“Am I pressuring you, baby?” she asked. “I thought it would be something you’d like to do.”

“It would, Jef. I’m not convinced it’s a good idea this weekend.”

“We won’t go.” She was disappointed—crushed—but unwilling to upset Ginger.

“Oh, Jef. Does it mean that much to you?”

Jefferson slumped, body and mind quickly swallowed by gloom. She laid her head on Ginger’s shoulder. “Not if you’re going to worry all day.”

“You feel so small when you’re sad,” said Ginger, her tone remorseful, her arms comforting, her hands, those magical hands, soothing. “You turn sad so suddenly.”

Jefferson snuggled against the beloved body, feeling, for the moment, safe and free from her own demanding will. At the same time, she realized she was clutching at Ginger. The power of her love was also the power of her need and that, she was learning, frightened some women.

“I wouldn’t worry all day,” Ginger said.

Jefferson straightened, still holding her. “You mean you’ll go on a holiday with me?”

“I didn’t say that,” Ginger warned with a laugh. “I guess I’m trying to say I don’t want you thinking you can wrap me around your little finger.”

She began to twist away from Jefferson, but weakly. They tussled, then fell laughing onto the unmade bed.

Jefferson’s good cheer returned as she realized that Ginger really would spend the day with her. But was this so important? More important than grades and Ginger’s peace of mind? How many days like this did one person get in a lifetime? Ginger’s gentle fingers were in her still-wet hair, her lips soft, nibbling, biting her own lips, tasting like mint.

“Ginger, Ginger, will you play hooky with me?”

“Lock the door,” came Ginger’s dry-voiced answer.

“Will you?” she repeated after she returned. She knelt at the edge of the bed, Ginger’s feet against her shoulders, and rubbed her cheeks along those soft inner thighs. “I could die happy here.”

“Not quite yet,” Ginger whispered, rubbing back against her. “Not till you finish what you started.”

Her lips pressed against Ginger’s soft mound, still moistly hot from the shower. She parted the cleft slowly with her tongue, then asked against her, “Will you?”

“Ohh, I like that,” said Ginger, pressing back. “But Jef, I want to graduate with a three point five—”

“I’ll give you a four point oh—”

“Oh, Jefferson, oh.” Ginger cleared her throat as if to gain control of herself. “I’m not majoring in sex.”

“You should. You’re real good, baby.”

She loved Ginger’s spicy yet sweet taste. No matter how many girls she went out with on the sly, her moral code insisted that she go down only on Ginger. If Ginger ever found out about the others, maybe she wouldn’t be as hurt.

As Ginger’s thighs hugged her head she pictured herself, this beautiful woman proudly on her arm, standing on the sidelines of a field-hockey game. Her old team would be more spirited because she, a school hero, watched. Ginger would be happy and secure, holding her hand. Always, Ginger would like visiting with the coach and teachers, like being her girl where that counted most. And Jefferson, all in white, a white crock of wine in her hand, would feel that mellow high only Saturday afternoons on a playing field and a few drinks could give her.

She rose, fell with Ginger’s hips, her tongue no longer roving, but strumming the slick full flesh over and over on the same spot. She’d check the schedule, maybe there was a game today. Ginger would have a great time. She’d make certain of that.

They drove to the suburban Westchester County town north of the city where Jefferson’s old team was scheduled to play that day. The golden light was softer and spread a romantic haze over the oranges, reds, and yellows of the trees, over the light greens of the playing field, and over the young women in short plaid skirts, intent on their game. Jefferson filled her lungs with balmy air that carried on it the scent of dozens of backyard leaf piles gloriously, briefly blazing. The thwack of the girls’ wooden hockey sticks as they clashed to defend their goals stirred more than prayers or anthems. This was winterless fall, sweet nostalgia; this was living at its best.

“Having a good time?” she asked Ginger, her heart celebrating.

“Sure. I love sharing this part of your life.” Ginger’s face was flushed, her absorption in the game obvious.

“Want to come back to the parking lot with me?”

“Jef, don’t you care that your team is losing?” Ginger clapped as the Bluejays made a goal and cheered with the other bystanders. The coach, an old classmate of Jefferson’s, ran to hug the scorer.

Jefferson watched the players a few more minutes. They seemed distanced by the hazy light, as if they were ghosts floating back and forth across the field. This could all be a pleasant dream. How could she explain to Ginger that it wasn’t the winning, the losing, or the playing? It was the feeling of well-being that was important. The ease of a day blessed by such indulgent light that she felt free of the strictures a normal day would bring. Wasn’t it like getting drunk? Life stopped being so hard.

She strode toward the parking lot in her whites. Inside her old Mustang were a picnic basket and supplies. Before leaving the city she and Ginger had stocked the car with rolls, cold meats, and a cooler full of cheesecake, soda, and wine. She lowered the car’s tailgate and pulled out her whiskey bottle with stealth, pouring a slug into a paper cup and downing it, then replacing it and grabbing one of the white crocks of wine. This was not an Ivy League football game, and tailgating, especially with drinking, was not a custom. But she’d thought it would please Ginger to invite the team for a snack after the game. And the teachers were always glad for something convivial to pour into their cups of soda.

“Hi, Taffy,” she said, and lounged against the car with her white bottle.

She remembered Taffy from other games, a cute little senior from the Academy who’d always been especially attentive.

The girl reached for the bottle. Team manager, she wore her short-skirted uniform like cheerleader garb. She definitely hadn’t reached drinking age. Taffy fell, laughing, against Jefferson’s chest as she wrestled for the bottle. Jefferson regretted three impassable years between them. But it didn’t matter anyway. I know right from wrong, she reminded herself. I have a will of my own. Sometimes she seemed compelled to do crazy things, but she wouldn’t let herself today. This would be a perfect day for Ginger.