Venus Envy (10 page)

But Ann’s words bit into her nerves like voracious
drops of acid. How could being yourself make other people so angry, so hateful? Maybe Ann’s words stung because there was some truth in her accusations. Maybe she didn’t have the right to hurt other people, but no matter which way she turned she hurt somebody. Lying was a slow hurt. This was quicker and cleaner.

Done was done. She’d have to find a way to live with it.

H
UGE GEOMETRIC FLAKES OF SNOW TWIRLED DOWN FROM
the heavy night skies. The cars in the parking lot of Buddy’s Restaurant were completely blanketed but the patrons inside the popular bar and grill either didn’t notice or were too drunk to care.

Carter Armstrong, in his clear tenor, sang along with the Irish band named for the famous hunt, The Galway Blazers. Deep in Bushmill’s whisky, he felt a cloak of invincibility warm his soul. Whisky always made him feel powerful, intelligent, and above all happy. He also loved the taste, the slow warmth as the liquid filled his mouth, the tongue of fire as the amber nectar slid down his throat, finally bursting into his stomach with a blast of pure energy. Bless those brewers and distillers in Scotland and Ireland bending over their copper pots, the smell of sweet grain and fermentation filling their
nostrils. Carter raised his glass to men he would never see.

Buddy, a former college football star and the bar’s owner, clapped Carter on the back. “Last one, Adonis. It’s snowing to beat the band outside and you’ve got some mean roads before you get home.”

“Snowing?”

“Yeah, time to fish out your cross-country skis.” Buddy planned to glide over the hills tomorrow.

“Never learned to ski.”

“It’s easy.” Buddy smiled. “Especially the falling down. I don’t think I got out of a snowplow for the first two months, but hey, you meet a lot of good-looking women out there. Must be something about a man with snow up his nose and encrusted all over his face that’s irresistible to them.” He clapped Carter on the back again. “Speaking of good-looking women, that’s great news about your sister. We’re all gonna grow old together and she’ll still be the best-looking thing I ever saw.”

Carter beamed. “I’m happy. But the best part, Buddy-bud, is that my perfect sister, the successful and driven Miss Mary Frazier Armstrong, is a dyke.” He tipped back his head and howled. “She wrote me a letter ’cause she thought she was dying and apart from telling me how to live my life, which every goddam woman seems intent upon doing, she confessed to being gay. I love it. I love it. I love it! I don’t look so bad now and I bet Daddy is writhing—his Miss Perfect isn’t so perfect.”

Buddy always listened to news—men called it news, never gossip—as much as the next guy but Carter’s crowing revealed more about Carter than it did about Frazier. “Live and let live.” He shrugged.

“You know what I think about this town?” Carter knocked back the last of his Bushmill’s. “They live and let live but they don’t make life easier.”

Buddy motioned for the waitress to bring coffee over to the table. He sat opposite Carter. “Other guys go home?”

Carter nodded. “I’m holding the fort until last call.” The coffee was placed before him. Since Carter had been tended to in one form or another all his life, this kindness was routine. “Thank you,” he said to the waitress. Just because he expected people to take care of him didn’t mean he’d forgotten his manners.

“Hey.” Buddy leaned over. “Don’t be talking about Frazier. If she wrote you a letter, that’s between you and her.”

Carter glared over his coffee as he sipped it. “I’ve had to eat Frazier’s shit since college. She can eat a little of mine. If she’s gay, she can pay. God knows I have.”

“It’s not the same.” The thought of beautiful Frazier being a lesbian pained Buddy. Not that he cared one way or the other about who did what to whom, but to suddenly find such a beautiful woman off-limits was demoralizing.

“Why not?”

“Come on, take another sip and don’t get belligerent on me. How many years have we known each other? Since kindergarten. Forever. I’m just saying go light on her. She’s had a terrible time. Don’t make it worse.”

“What do you mean it’s not the same?”

“Carter, wildman, you don’t do jack shit”—Big Buddy opened his palms as if in supplication—“except where the ladies are concerned.”

“Ah, I don’t know anything about women.” Carter relaxed. “But I’ve got one.”

“Or two or three.” Buddy burst out laughing. “I don’t know how you do it. My old lady would skin me raw, and on my favorite part too.”

“If you don’t use it you lose it.”

Buddy waved for a refill. “This ought to get you home.”

“I’m okay.”

“Just in case.” Buddy waved to his customers and friends as they filed out. People would ooh and aah when they saw the snow outside, now six inches deep and still piling up.

“Thought we’d have an early spring,” Carter said. “The robins are here.”

“Winter backlash. Hell loosen his grip soon enough. March raises your hopes and smashes them on the floor every two days. Hey, here’s one for you. What do you call a guy who masturbates?” Carter shook his head that he didn’t know. “A tearjerker.”

“That’s bad, Buddy. I mean, that’s so bad it’s pathetic. Listen to this. A guy goes to the doctor with his wife. She’s been feeling bad for a while so they run a battery of tests on her and she’s maybe forty, you know, not too old. Two weeks later the doctor calls the guy in his office and says, ‘We’ve reviewed the results of all these tests, Mack, but we can’t quite pinpoint your wife’s disease. I know this sounds crazy but she’s either got Alzheimer’s or AIDS.’ Alzheimer’s or AIDS? The guy can’t believe it. ‘What do I do?’ he says. The doctor says, ‘Take her for a nice long walk in the forest and then leave her there. If she finds her way home, don’t fuck her.’” Carter giggled. The giggles grew into laughter and then finally he shook.

Buddy laughed, too, but mostly he worried about Carter getting home. As for worrying about Carter doing something useful with his life, he’d given up on him years ago.

T
HE SUNRISE ARRIVED LIKE THE TIPTOEING OF AN ANGEL.
Frazier awoke early, Curry and Basil curled up beside her, and watched the soft pink haze spill over the snow. The crystals refracted the light, covering the ground with tiny rainbows. The icicles glowed, changing color with each shift of light until the world was washed in gold.

She tossed out seed for the birds, providing amusement for her and the cat and the dog. The birds’ tracks in the snow reminded her of the marks bakers put on pies. Soon the squirrels horned in on the food. She opened the back door and threw out Indian corn for them. They quickly scampered away and fussed over the corn cobs, much to the robins’ delight. Blue jays swooped down, squawking. The backyard resembled a feathered convention.

Since most Virginians can’t drive in six inches of
snow, much less a foot and a half, schools were canceled, along with concerts and sports events. The announcer on the radio listed the cancellations for each county. Frazier figured there was little point in going to work. The town would be vacant.

Frazier waited until 7:30
A.M
. to call Mandy, as she knew she’d be awake by then.

“Good morning, Glory,” Frazier sang out when Mandy picked up the phone.

“It is a good morning. I’m looking over the rooftops on Second and First streets. Reminds me of that Pissarro, ‘Pontoise, The Road to Gisors in Winter.’”

Frazier told her, “Stay home and play. No one’s going to work today. I’ll check in for messages. You build a snowman. Or snowwoman. Or how about a snow Versailles?”

“With my vast sculpting talent I can hardly wait,” Mandy replied. “Hey, don’t forget, you were supposed to have lunch with your father today.”

“Thanks. I did forget. I’ll call him as soon as I hang up. You know what else I forgot?”

“What?”

“To order more Xerox paper. Remind me to do that Monday morning. I programmed it on my Wizard but I forgot to look at the damned thing. I’m better off sticking notes everywhere.”

“Like the end of your nose.”

“Are you implying that I misplace my notes?”

“Only that you’re nearsighted. So what are you going to do today?”

“Are you ready?” Frazier let the suspense build.

You’re not going to write more letters?”

“Very funny. No. I am going to organize my library. Finally.”

“Good for you. I hope you’ll show me the results. I was
supposed to go out with Sean tonight but he won’t be able to drive in so I think I’ll organize, too—my bathroom. You’ll never see the results.”

“Have a great day sorting through your lipsticks.” Frazier pressed the disconnect button and then dialed her father at home.

Libby answered, “Hello.”

“Mother, is Dad there?”

“Yes.” Libby’s tone was as frosty as the outdoors.

“Let me talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Mother, I have a lunch appointment with Dad and I want to reschedule. Put him on the phone.”

“You’ll upset him.”

“I’m not going to upset him.”

“Well, don’t you talk to him about … you know.”

“He knows.” Frazier was exasperated. “I told him in my letter.”

“I didn’t give him your letter.”

“Mother!”

“Just hold your horses, young lady. He’s overworked and overwrought. You know how this recession has affected your father’s business. Everybody thinks Frank is so rich that something like this can’t hurt him but the paving business has been hit hard. He doesn’t need any trouble from you.”

“Put Dad on the phone.”

“Not until you promise me you won’t talk about disturbing subjects.”

“You have no right—”

“I have every right to protect my husband.”

“Do you really think this news won’t get around town? Daddy will hear about it.”

“Oh, no he won’t. No friend would bring that up to your father.”

“Maybe it won’t be a friend.”

“He is not going to know.” Libby held firm. “I’ll give him your message.” She slammed down the phone.

“Mother. Mother? Goddammit.” The clear dial tone filled Frazier’s ear. She placed the receiver in the cradle.

Libby puzzled Frazier despite the fact that she had known her all her life. Her mother’s rigidity was no surprise but Libby’s believing she could keep information from her husband was disturbing. Either her mother marshaled more resources than Frazier could imagine or she had lifted lying to an art form. Then again, maybe Frank wanted to be managed. Libby kept his social calendar, wrote his thank-yous, bought his gifts for family, employees, and friends on their birthdays, anniversaries, and Christmas. Libby decided what charities would receive contributions, where they would vacation each year, and when to buy new cars. All Frank had to do was go to work and come home. Maybe he didn’t really want to know anything about anybody. When she was young Frazier had longed for her father to stand up to her mother. By the time she reached her teens she prayed for it but Frank continued on his placid way. If Libby scolded, he chalked it up to that time of the month. If she proved as irritable as a hornet, he declared that she was high-strung. If she lashed out on a two-week rampage, he generally gave her enough money to redecorate the house.

Frazier held her hand up to the light. Her veins shone through a purple blue. Hard to believe that she was related to Libby, or even Frank, by blood. Hard to believe, too, that had she died the pulsation in her veins would have stopped, the blood stagnating in place. Of course, if she had died sitting up, she guessed the blood would have eventually run to her feet. Wouldn’t gravity pull it down? She pondered this for a few moments and
then let out a war whoop. She hadn’t died. Okay, her mother was a whistling bitch and her father was a weakling where his wife was concerned, but she was alive, triumphantly alive.

She pulled on heavy socks, a silk undershirt, a long-sleeved thermal undershirt, a flannel shirt, her jeans, and workboots. She grabbed an ancient down jacket, whistled for Curry and Basil, and ran outside.

A strong creek with a small waterfall provided the northern boundary for her land. Frazier, the cat, and the dog plowed through the fresh snow to the creek. Although the banks were encrusted with ice, the waterfall cascaded over the rocks. The temperature hadn’t plunged deep enough or long enough to freeze the waterfall.

The low rumble of a diesel truck sent Curry bounding through the snow. A smart dog, he followed in Frazier’s footsteps as she headed for the driveway. Basil rode on Frazier’s shoulder.

“Ruru. What are you doing out on a day like this?”

“Bertha gets through anything.” Ruru climbed out of her 1977 four-wheel-drive Ford. “And so do I. I figured that our phone conversation when you came home from the hospital wasn’t good enough, and I figured on a day like this we ought to take a walk.”

“Sure. Let me put these two back in the house.”

Grumbling, the cat and dog were shut up in the house. Ruru and Frazier headed down the road, because a car had gotten stuck by the side.

“No point in using Bertha. We can push this lady out ourselves.”

The driver, cold and frustrated, steered the car as Frazier and Ruru pushed from behind. They finally shoved her on her way with a wave and a shout.

“Let’s walk down to the old schoolhouse.”

“About two miles. Then another two back, Ru.”

“You think I’m too old? Boy, you can be a smartass kid.” With that the older woman set off at a brisk pace and Frazier hurried to catch up with her. Every now and then she’d have to spit out some of the phlegm that would break out of her bronchial tubes. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Frazier nodded.

“Hopefully you’ll be out of the woods soon. Hey, maybe we shouldn’t be outside.”

“No, this is good for me. In fact, I’m going to start jogging.”

“You?”

“Me. I hate it like poison. I mean it’s so boring, but”—Frazier inhaled the crisp air—“it really helps the lungs. I don’t know where I picked this thing up.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Yeah?”

“Your Great Uncle Fred suffered from bronchitis all his life. Used to have a funny, metallic whistle when he’d breathe.”