Chapter Twelve

Two weeks had passed since that day on the beach and Anne never ceased to wonder how fast time flies when you’re actually enjoying yourself. She’d been working on Web ideas with Hilton, and they’d gone shopping together for an addition to Hilton’s wardrobe, who had discovered that there were winter clothes.

Anne thought perhaps Veronica, who was still madly in love with Jessie, had gotten to her. She’d seen them perusing a Vogue and an Elle magazine together. Shannon had survived another round with the groomer and Liz and Melissa were getting along famously.

Life, up to this point, had been pleasant. Almost too pleasant.

Something was bound to fuck it up.

By Thanksgiving day, the only thing getting her through it was the knowledge that she would be seeing Hilton and the girls afterward for drinks and five-card stud. She’d been saving her change all week. It was a Hilton house tradition that Gran had started and the girls diligently upheld. It appeared Gran hadn’t believed in 136

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gambling, but cards required skill so she allowed it and, judging from the stories, reveled in a good game of poker.

After she stoically helped her mother peel potatoes and cut up celery and onions for the stuffing, she’d been released from KP to go and visit with her father in his study. He was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading the New York Times. He was muttering to himself. He looked up when he saw her. Anne had his green eyes and thick, brown hair, although his short beard and mustache had turned white. He always reminded her of a jovial-looking Ernest Hemingway.

“The Times has become a cesspool for hack journalism. It used to be a good paper until it started this political agenda hogwash.

Yellow journalism at its worst. History really is circular.”

“Then why do you read it?” Anne sat down in one of the burgundy wing back chairs. His study looked like a page straight out of Architectural Digest. Her mother had the uncanny ability to make every decorating project picture perfect. A brass nameplate on the desk read Malcolm Counterman, PhD Dark oak bookcases lined the room and were a testimony to his intellectual prowess.

Anne doubted her father even noticed the absolute correctness of his study, how his wife had thought of every detail of what the study of a Doctor of Political Science should look like. Her system of organizing their lives had worked out until her daughter lost her husband to another man. This turn of events didn’t bode well in Brochure Land.

“I don’t know. I just always have. It’s like an old friend that’s gone off the deep end but you can’t cut yourself loose.”

Anne laughed.

“So how’s the book coming?” he asked.

“Shh, you’re the only one who knows.” She stole a look at the door. Her mother was a notorious eavesdropper.

“So how’s it coming?” he whispered when she gave him the thumbs-up signal, indicating the coast was clear.

“I write a couple of pages a day and hopefully they’ll accumu-late into something like a novel.”

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“Ah, the doctrine of incrementalism. It’s becoming a lost art in today’s culture, which is a pity because small steps will eventually get you there. I think the Victorians were the ones who perfected it. They had the moral fortitude along with the luxury of time to know that Rome wasn’t built in a day. This business of living in the fast lane will be our demise.”

Anne smiled at him. He was the only one who ever understood her aspirations, first the radio career and now her desire to write thrillers. She’d always toyed with the idea but it was her father’s gentle prodding that got her started. Before he’d retired five years ago he wrote papers for think tanks and op-ed columns, and although his imagination wasn’t as fanciful as hers, at least they shared some literary leanings.

She asked, “Is it bad to achieve one’s dream only to become dis-enchanted with the end product?”

“No, I think it’s the normal landscape for overachievers.” He looked at her over the top of his black reading glasses.

“I’m changing.”

“Precisely.”

Anne’s mother retrieved them for dinner. As her father carved the turkey, Anne poured the wine, dreading the inquisition to come. She knew it was hiding somewhere between the mashed potatoes, the cranberries in orange sauce and the biscuits. She couldn’t see it holding out until the pumpkin pie. Her mother hit her while she was passing the butter.

“Gerald called the other day.”

“He did?” Anne responded innocently. She looked at the biscuit she had just finished buttering. A second earlier it looked appetizing, all fluffy and moist. It was no wonder she’d been thin most of her life. Her mother always chose the dinner hour to engage in verbal calisthenics.

“Gerald wanted to know if we would mind if you had your birthday dinner at his house rather than celebrating it here with us as we usually do, that perhaps we could take you out for lunch instead. I think it was very considerate of him. I have no problem with the change. He wants to invite you and your friend.”

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Anne, who had just bitten into her biscuit, swallowed wrong and nearly choked. “He told you about Hilton?” She could feel her heart begin to pound in her ears.

Her father handed her a glass of water. “Are you all right? Your face is all red.”

“I’m fine.”

“I think his inviting you to dinner is a really good thing,” her mother said.

“You do?”

“I think it’s very positive that he wants to see you and he says your new girlfriend had been beneficial for you. Oh, I’m so pleased.” She clasped her hands together and beamed blissfully at her daughter.

Anne studied her mother’s face. She wasn’t getting the correct picture, which was often the case. Her mother was once again living in the illusion of her own desires. This was the first time it occurred to Anne that if she allowed herself to fall in love with Hilton that Victoria Anne Counterman was going to have a coronary.

“Yes, Hilton is very nice and we have a lot of fun together.”

Anne passed her father the cranberries. He hadn’t indicated he wanted them but she didn’t care. He politely took the dish.

“I just think it’s a step in the right direction. Perhaps Gerald has done some soul-searching and you’ve become less myopic.” A sweet smile played on her mother’s lips.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled. I’m simply pointing out that you tend to be little too focused on what you want and what you’re doing, with little regard to the needs of others.”

“Which, of course, would have included my husband.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Victoria, I think Anne has had enough motherly advice for one visit. It’s a holiday, perhaps we can celebrate instead of denigrate.”

“I think that’s an outstanding idea, Dad.”

“I’m not doing that!”

“You know, I’ve really got to go. Dinner was great as usual.”

Anne got up and pushed her chair back in.

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“Where are you going?” Victoria asked.

“I’ve got some work to do to prep for the show tomorrow.” She avoided her father’s gaze. He would know this wasn’t true but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to fight with her mother.

Anne grabbed her coat from the bench in the hallway. She had started out the door when she discovered her car keys were nowhere to be found. Hilton kept threatening to get her one of those beeping key locators. She wished she had it right now. She retraced her steps and eventually found them on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was adjacent to the dining room and was separated by a swinging wooden door. Anne could hear her parents talking.

“Victoria, this is hardly her fault,” her father said.

“She must have done something. Gerald is the sweetest man.”

“He’s still a nice fellow and Anne wasn’t the one who turned him out. She can’t really compete, you know.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Anne could easily envision the look on her mother’s face. It would be one of consternation coupled with blatant stubbornness, a refusal to see the world as it was instead of how she preferred it to be.

“Anne doesn’t have a penis.”

“Malcolm, don’t use that word. It’s disgusting.”

Anne wanted to run in there and dance around the table like an errant five-year-old screaming, “I don’t have a penis.” Instead, she softly chuckled, put her car keys in the pocket of the leather coat and slipped out of the house. Her father always stood his ground for her and now she knew that whatever happened between her and Hilton, her father would handle it. Her mother would be the bigot she always was, but her father would stand by his daughter.

Anne got in the car and turned on the radio, hoping there would be something on the news that would distract her. This was a futile cause, as nothing really exciting was reported on a holiday.

Everyone was supposed to be relaxing and enjoying their family time. She tried to quiet her fury as she drove across town. She 140

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didn’t want to arrive at Hilton’s in a heap of tangled emotions. The twenty-minute drive helped. She felt relatively calm as she pulled up in front of Hilton’s house.

She looked at her watch. It was only six-thirty and the rainy day had now turned pitch dark. The house looked warm and inviting.

She was certain the house would be appropriately decorated with Veronica in charge. She imagined white linens, tapered candles in silver holders and little nameplates at each setting. She smiled.

Hilton opened the door. She looked pleasantly surprised.

“You’re early.”

“I walked out on dinner,” Anne said, ramming her hands in her coat pockets. She could do that now that her thumbnail had fallen off. The house was filled with the smell of food. Her stomach tugged at her. Now she was hungry.

“Didn’t go so well, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“We’re still eating, so come eat, have a glass of wine and forget about your mother.”

“How’d you know it was my mother?”

“Because I’ve read your father’s op-ed pieces online. The dude rocks.”

Her father was a guest columnist for a popular online news site.

Anne knew he was never fully satisfied unless he was writing and making social commentary. It was just nice that now he could do it at his leisure without the pressure of a deadline. “I overheard him telling my mom that it’s not my fault I don’t have a penis and that’s what Gerald wants.”

They both laughed. They went to the dining room. Liz got up and gave Anne a warm hug.

“Let me get you a plate,” Liz said.

Anne walked by and popped Veronica on the head as a sort of greeting. Veronica actually smiled and said, “And how are the illus-trious Victoria and Malcolm Counterman?”

“Lovely as ever,” Anne said, taking a seat. Veronica had met her parents several times at the radio station. The long dining room 141

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table was decorated just as she imagined it. Veronica must have dug around in the china cabinet for all the good dinnerware. It was a picture-perfect Thanksgiving table. She must have made some apparel decisions as well. Hilton was dressed in a long, black dress coat with a white ruffled blouse and the others looked well-turned-out in sweaters and blouses.

“Parents can really suck sometimes, but they’re responsible for the women we love,” Jessie said. She took Veronica’s hand and nib-bled at her fingers.

“Jessie, that was so sweet,” Liz said. She set Anne’s plate down.

Hilton handed her the turkey platter. Anne took two slices of turkey and then a good-sized dollop of mashed potatoes. Jessie passed her the cranberries.

“She’s right, though,” Melissa said. She squeezed Liz’s thigh.

“Boy, mark this day on the calendar,” Jessie said. She smiled big.

“Exactly. It will be noted that on this day, Jessie said something sweet and appropriate,” Hilton said. She poured Anne a glass of Pinot Noir. Anne nodded her appreciation. She felt better already.

“So how is everyone else’s family on holidays?” Anne inquired.

She took a sip of wine. She needed some moral support. Here was a group of women and none of them were spending the day with their parents. She wondered why.

“Oh, I don’t think you want to know,” Jessie said. “It’s not a pretty picture.”

“Jessie maintains family relations through a series of religious pamphlets that her parents send from Portland. They even high-light the pertinent parts in case she misses the point,” Liz explained.

“The burn-in-hell parts,” Jessie added. “I think it’s designed to diminish my fragile self-image. It hasn’t worked yet.” She puffed up her chest and put her arms behind her head. “Sometimes I get a wild hair up my ass and send them a note with something like

‘God made all creatures so he must have made me.’”

“Then we get boxes of literature,” Liz said.

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Anne laughed. At least her mother wouldn’t use the God card.

She was more concerned with what her peers would think than what the Almighty would do to her errant daughter. “How about you?” she asked Liz.

“We adhere to the stoic, Midwestern decorum utilized by the Armed Forces—don’t ask, don’t tell. They don’t ask about boyfriends and I don’t tell about girlfriends. We keep it to serious discussions of the weather.”

Hilton took her hand under the table and squeezed it as if to convey that everything would be all right. They really needed to have a talk. Was she truly capable of changing her entire outlook on the world and the world’s outlook on her? This was a little more serious than just falling in love. This was turning your whole life upside down with the hope that it would eventually work itself out.

“If it’s any consolation, Melissa has really cool parents. They even belong to PFLAG,” Liz said.

“What’s that?” Anne asked.

“Parents for Lesbians and Gays,” Melissa explained. “And they really like Liz.” She beamed at Liz.

Hilton topped off Anne’s wineglass and handed her a linen napkin and a fork. Anne realized she hadn’t touched her food yet.

“Is that a hint?”

“Yes, you need to eat something.”

Veronica piped up. “I’m a fourth-generation lesbian.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jessie said. She handed Hilton the cornbread stuffing. Hilton plopped some on Anne’s plate.

Anne couldn’t decide if Hilton was trying to distract her from the subject at hand or if she was truly concerned about her caloric intake.

“It means my great-grandmother was a suffragette and an ardent lesbian. My grandmother was raised as a lesbian and so was my mother, who in turn educated me.”

“But what about the biological angle?” Anne asked. She took a bite of stuffing.

“There were always helpful men, lesbian-identified men who 143

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were willing to supply the necessary ingredient.” Veronica shrugged.

“Oh, my, your family sounds like modern-day Amazons,” Anne said.

“Precisely, and we’re extremely proud of our family tree and hope to continue the tradition,” Veronica said. She stared intently at Jessie.

“Would I make a good father?” Jessie asked.

Anne stifled a laugh. She noticed Hilton and Liz both had their mouths open. Veronica appeared not to notice. Jessie gave them a dirty look.

“With proper training and guidance you’ll make an outstanding parent,” Veronica said, patting her hand reassuringly.

Anne cut her turkey and took a bite. It was delicious. They all grew quiet as they ate dinner. Anne had two glasses of wine, cooed over Veronica’s homemade biscuits and generally enjoyed her dinner. Her earlier dinner became a distant memory. Hilton kept shoving food at her until she adamantly refused.

“All right then,” Hilton said. “Let’s finish this up and get the poker game going.”

“I’ve been saving my change all week,” Anne said.

“Do you know how?” Hilton asked. She got up and pulled a box of cigars out of one of the hutches that lined the ornate dining room.

“Never played it before in my life,” Anne said, making sure to keep a straight face.

Hilton smiled. “Watch this one, everybody. We may have a master bluffer in our midst.”

They cleared the dining room table and then retired to the library, where one corner of the room had been converted for poker, right down to the green felt-covered octagonal table.

“Did Jessie decorate this room too?” Anne asked. The library was carpeted in a dark burgundy Berber and the rest of the room was filled with heavy oak end tables and brown leather chairs along with two couches. It looked like something out of a high-class 144

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men’s club. Amber cut-glass crystal ashtrays sat on all the end tables, and the heavy club-footed coffee table that separated the two couches contained leather-bound books on fox hunting, English gardens, and Roman architecture.

“She did,” Hilton said. She lit a cigar and handed it to Anne.

“Wow!” Anne said. She sucked slowly on the cigar.

“I saw the whole thing in this home and garden magazine on English country style and I copied it, right down to the books. I call it the Man Room.”

Melissa plopped down in one of the chairs. “This rocks.”

“Thanks.”

“I think she should take interior design classes,” Veronica said.

“Let the games begin,” Hilton said. She pulled out a fresh pack of cards and they all took their places at the table to try their luck.

Anne couldn’t help thinking this was the most fun she’d had on a holiday. Perhaps being an abomination and a social pariah wasn’t going to be that bad at all. She liked Hilton’s friends and there never seemed to be a dull moment. Victoria Anne Counterman was just going to have to get over it. Anne sucked her cigar and studied her cards.

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Date: 2015-04-20; view: 745