The One That Got Away (8 page)

Eduardo escorted the visitor into the front room. “My name is Eduardo, and this is B.D.”

“I'm Jim. That's a beautiful tree,” Jim said, looking directly at Eduardo.

“It's so cold out,” Eduardo said. “May I offer you something hot to drink, Jim?” The word hot seemed to reverberate throughout the room.

“I think I'll take you up on that,” Jim said.

“Will coffee do? I was brewing a fresh pot while we decorated the tree. Milk? Sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

I decided it might be time for me to make my exit. “I've got some filing to do in my office. Nice meeting you, Jim,” I said, although he hadn't officially acknowledged my existence.

“B.D., where are you going?” Eduardo asked. “Sit down.”

I sat. I felt like a dog: a large, warm body with nothing to contribute to the conversation.

Eduardo came out from the kitchen carrying a tray with three mugs. He placed it on the coffee table, handed one mug to Jim, another to me, and took the third for himself, settling into a chair opposite his gentleman caller. “Do you live around here, Jim, or are you just visiting the city?”

“I live over on Greenwich Avenue.”

“How wonderful,” Eduardo said. “We're practically
neighbors. Perhaps you'd like to come to my annual holiday fête? A few films, lots of food, and a little bit of caroling; you can come for part of it or all of it.”

“Well, I'm not sure,” Jim said. “Though it certainly sounds like fun.”

“It's for old friends and new friends,” Eduardo said, with a slight emphasis on new. He leaned forward. “Please, let me print out an invitation for you.”

While Eduardo was out of the room, Jim and I sipped our coffee in silence. I tried to determine if he was the kind of man who would appreciate seeing Eduardo in a long-sleeved red robe trimmed with white fur, a replica of the outfit worn by Rosemary Clooney in the finale of
White Christmas
.

The coffee was finished, business cards were exchanged, and Jim went on his way. Eduardo took the mugs back to the kitchen, while I gathered up the tissue that had cradled the ornaments since the previous year.

“Do you think Jim will come to the fête, B.D.?” Eduardo asked.

I didn't know how to answer. Sometimes it was easier to believe in Santa Claus and angels than in human beings. While the holidays held the potential for happiness, it was easy to hope for too much. I enjoyed celebrating quietly, and alone. Some people had a hard time accepting that I preferred sipping hot cider and piecing together a reproduction of a painting of angels while Christmas carols played on the radio.

I knew that Eduardo had some quiet holiday rituals too. One was to go to the General Post Office at 32th Street and Eighth Avenue and select some letters to Santa. He would try to fulfill the wishes of the letter writers. At the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, he would share a toast of cider with a few of his closest friends, a tradition carried over from his childhood in Argentina. And on Christmas Day, before going out to
dinner, he dressed up in a Santa suit, complete with white moustache and beard, and went to a city homeless shelter with a sack of oranges, chocolate bars, clothing, and toys.

Chapter 7

I was riding home on the subway, reading Sarah Waters'
Tipping the Velvet
. After the guy who'd been sitting next to me got off the train, I felt a gentle jolt and glanced up to give the requisite glare. I never did, for I quickly realized that the woman who had slid across the seats to my side was no ordinary commuter.

She was wearing a black down jacket, a black watch cap, and black leather pants.

“Luvly book, that,” she said with a British accent.

I smiled. “Yes it is. Are you on vacation?”

She nodded.

“First trip to the States?”

“Yes.”

“How do you like New York so far?”

“Well,” she said, “I'm liking it much better now.”

She had beautiful brown eyes.

“I'm Jean,” she said.

“And I'm B.D. It's sort of a nickname.”

“So, B.D., what can you tell me about the women's scene around here? Are there any dances?”

“The community center has a women's dance once a month,” I said. “How long are you going to be here?”

“I'm in New York for another week, then I'm going to San Francisco.”

“The women's dance won't be until the end of the month,” I said. The subway doors opened and I quickly checked the station sign. “Two more stops, then I have to get off,” I said.

“My stop is the next one. Could we have coffee or something?”

“Sure. Do you have a sweet tooth?” I asked hopefully, thinking of the pastries at Café aux Camélias.

“Not really.”

So I took Jean to the brightly lit Broadway Blue Plate. It was practically empty but held the promise of the white-haired men and blue-rinsed women who rise with the sun and come in search of the breakfast specials. As Jean and I shrugged off our coats and slid into opposite sides of a padded mustard-colored booth, the waiter wiped the gold-veined Formica tabletop between us with a damp cloth.

“The lemonade is actually very good here,” I said to Jean. “They make it with fresh lemons.”

“I think I'll have tea,” Jean said. “I always have a cup of tea before bed.”

Jean's long-sleeved Carhartt henley shirt hinted at a slender, sinewy body, and it was clear to me that although her clothing had been chosen for comfort, she was aware that certain people might find it provocative.

We talked about our jobs. Jean told me she worked for a government agency. I explained that I was a bridal consultant.

“Working with brides-to-be seems like an odd sort of job for a dyke,” Jean said.

“I agree. It's a little bit like being a resistance fighter inside enemy headquarters. It really helps that my boss has a drag queen alter ego.”

“Do you ever get the feeling that a client might be making a mistake?”

“In terms of the man she's marrying? Or because my gaydar is picking up something?”

“Both,” Jean said.

“Sometimes my instinct tells me there's something about the groom. But I've never sensed a latent lesbian among the brides-to-be.”

“How do you feel about one-night stands, B.D.?” Jean asked.

After my experience with Sylvia, I was aware of the potential for either success or disaster in Jean's question. I thought for a moment, then decided to opt for an honest reply, even if it killed my chances.

“In theory, I'm in favor of one-night stands,” I said. “But I'm afraid in practice I'm not very good at them. I have to say, though, that the few one-night stands I have had have been with men.”

“Have you just come out, then?” Jean asked.

“Pretty much.”

“You're not dating anyone?”

“Not really. There is someone I'm attracted to, but we're just friends, and besides, she's in a relationship.”

“That's a hard one,” Jean said.

“What about you?”

Jean smiled. “Oh, I'm a very old dyke,” she said. “I've been out for a long time; I've had to fight for my life. I just broke up with the woman I've been with for the last five years. So I'm back in the dating scene. With one-night stands, it can be difficult to know what you're getting into. Women who expect me to be really butch are disappointed.”

I tried to figure out what that meant, and whether it was meant for me.

“Maybe we could have a drink later on in the week,”
Jean said. “I'd like to see the Stonewall Inn; I understand it's still there.”

“OK,” I said, writing my name and phone number on Jean's subway map.

Jean called me from a club the following night. “Hello, B.D. I'm at the She-Wolf's Lair, but not much is happening here.”

“It may be too early,” I told her. “From what I've heard, the She-Wolf's Lair doesn't start filling up until after midnight.” I didn't know what to do. “My apartment's a mess,” I said.

I met Jean outside my apartment building and we walked over to Riverside Park, shivering in the night air. There was no question of our actually going into the park, of course—it was dark out—so we sat on a park bench along Riverside Drive. Before long an elderly woman wearing a black Persian lamb pillbox hat joined us. She paid no attention to us, as she was engrossed in a bitter conversation with herself, but it was a bit hard for us to ignore her entirely.

We went back to my apartment, which is one of those New York City dwelling spaces with windows that remain open throughout the year, as the heat blasting from the radiator turns the space into a sauna. Within minutes of coming through the door, we began removing unnecessary clothing. Since piles of paper and books occupied both chairs, we had to sit on my bed.

Jean didn't give me time to be nervous, because the second we sat down she put her arms around me and kissed me.

I said, “I've never done this before.”

“That's all right,” Jean replied. “I have.”

Once we were entirely free of fabric Jean held my breasts and lowered her head. As I savored the luxury of her lips on my nipple, I gently placed my palms over her sweet, sand dollar breasts. Our skin, already misted with the sweat from the day, became slick with the sweat of sex. We didn't say much, but when her hand slid down and her finger slid in, Jean smiled at me and whispered, “This is why I'm a dyke.”

She stroked me with her thumb in a rhythm that was a pleasurable variation on my own familiar pattern. I lay quiescent, meditating on the motions of her fingers as though I might have to diagram them the following day. The sounds I heard seemed separate from me, although I knew I was the source of them. I thought about women in books who could come at a touch, a breath, a look, a word. Why was I always the tortoise and never the hare? But the tortoise won the race, eventually, so maybe that wasn't a good metaphor. And what happened to the hare that made him the loser? I was thinking too much. I wondered how much time had passed, if Jean was bored, or would like to give her fingers a rest.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm a little nervous. I can come when I'm by myself, but a lot of the time I use a vibrator.”

Jean propped herself up on one elbow, leaning her head into her hand, and resting the damp fingertips of her other hand on the swell of my stomach. “We can use your vibrator if you want to,” she said.

I shook my head. “I really want your fingers touching me, not a machine.” I put my hand over hers and moved it down again.

A few minutes later I pushed Jean's hand away and rolled on top of her. I circled each nipple several times with my tongue, then slid my hands to her hips and my head between her thighs.

Later, I would lie to people who asked me if I'd
practiced safe sex, and tell them I did. But at this moment, my need was my world.

I took Jean's sighing and moaning as evidence that, even if I had no idea of what I was doing, I was doing something right.

When Jean grew quiet I lifted myself up over her body, then lay down again, propping myself up on my elbows. I felt the way I feel at the end of my first day in a foreign country—a place familiar and strange at the same time. I was exhausted yet wakeful.

As we lay heart to heart, her face softened into a kind of beauty that no one else saw—not her boss, the man at the corner newsstand, or the stranger on the bus. I wondered then if this happened every time, with every woman.