More Than a Kiss (11 page)

Amy’s Big Coming Out, Continued

“If
you don’t come out of there, I’m coming in,” Amy said.

The
boots wiggled again, but made no move to right themselves and come out.

“Okay,
I lied,” Amy said.  “I’m not coming into that stinky dumpster.  But I am going
to tell you what I need to tell you and if you don’t like it, then… well then
you don’t like it, that’s all.  So there.  I’m a lesbian.  At least I think I
am.  I mean, I’m pretty sure I am.  I mean, I am. I’m in love with a woman. 
And we’ve kissed.  Several times.  And I liked it.  I’m going to kiss her
again.  I’m going to kiss her as much as possible and I even bought new
underwear.  I hope you won’t disown me or be embarrassed by me.  It is my wish
that you will accept Jordan – that’s her name –
I
want you to accept Jordan as my significant other.  That’s all.”

There
was no answer from the dumpster.

“That’s
all I wanted to say.”

Silence. 
No movement.

“The
end.”

Amy
stared at the boots.  They didn’t move.

“You
can respond now.”

Nothing.

“Mom? 
Are you okay in there?”

Amy
was gripped by a fear that her mother had suffocated under the heap of stinky,
gooey dumpster stuff.  She quickly mounted the side of the dumpster, yelling,
“Don’t worry!  I’ll save you!” and dove inside headfirst.

Amy
pushed off the bottom of the dumpster with her feet and swam to the top.  Her
head broke above the surface of the trash and she gulped down fresh air.  She
was face to face with the turquoise boots.  She grabbed them both and pulled
with all her might.

The
boots came away easily and the force of her pulling sent her reeling
backwards.  She plopped into a corner of the dumpster and stared at the boots
in her hand.

“Hey,
what’s the idea?”

Amy
looked up.  An old woman stared back at her.  The woman had only one tooth and
her face was as wrinkled as a dirty dishrag.  “Those’re my boots!” the old
woman yelled.  She grabbed the boots out of Amy’s hands, jumped overboard and
scurried down the alley.

“Sorry,
I thought you were somebody else!  My bad!” Amy called after her.

Amy’s Real Coming Out

Amy
stood on the front porch of her childhood home and rang the doorbell.  She
hadn’t been home since the day she left for college.  She nervously shifted
from foot to foot.  She was determined to really tell her mother and get this
over with. 

Meet
Claire Stewart.
 
Claire may have been fifty years old, but she looked more like forty.  She was
the summer of love personified – tie-dye, moccasins, beads and bangles.  She
always had a smell of incense or patchouli about her.  When Claire opened the
door and saw Amy she smiled and grabbed her in a hug.  Claire was a big hugger.

“Amy! 
What a wonderful surprise!”  She took a step back and her face darkened. 
“Nothing’s the matter is it?”

“No,”
Amy said quickly.  “I just wanted to… I was in the neighborhood, so I thought
I’d drop by.”  Amy could kick herself.  Where had her courage gone?

Claire
pulled Amy into another big hug.  Then she held Amy at arm’s length and
wrinkled her nose.  “You’re a little stinky, sweetheart.”

“Um,
yeah… Can I come in?”

Amy
followed Claire through a spotlessly clean house and into a sparkling kitchen.
Not one piece of junk anywhere. Wow.  Amy was flabbergasted.  “Where’s all your
dumpster stuff?”

Claire
laughed.  “I rented a storage unit to store all my art supplies.  Coffee?”

“Sure. 
So, what made you decide to clean up the house?  And what happened to your
boots?”

“Well,
it’s a little embarrassing to tell the truth.  One day I got a phone call from
a Hollywood producer.”

Amy
raised her eyebrows.

“He
wanted to know if he could interview me for his TV show.”

“Really? 
What show?”

“It’s
called
American Hoarders.”

Amy
laughed out loud before she could catch herself.  She clasped her hand over her
mouth, saying, “Sorry.  That’s not really funny.”

Claire
laughed along with Amy.  “Yes, it is funny.  It wasn’t then, but it is now. 
Anyway, that gave me the impetus to clean up my life.  And as for the boots, I
threw them away, too.”

“I
like the place now, Mom.  It looks and feels like a real home.”

“Thank
you, sweetie.  Now what did you come to tell me?”

Amy
didn’t know where to begin, so she just opened her mouth and hoped for the
best.  “I came here with a purpose.  A reason.  I need to tell you something.”

Claire
put a cup of coffee in front of Amy and sat across the table.  “Is this about
you being a lesbian?”

Amy
spit her sip of coffee across the tabletop.  “How did you know?”

Claire
smiled.  “It was in the paper, dear, I think the whole city knows by now.  And
I have to say, I’ve never been prouder.”

“You’re
proud that I’m a lesbian?”

“No,
silly, I’m proud that you are creating art.  I mean, the doctor thing is
wonderful, but creating spontaneous art heals the soul.  Your soul and the
souls of others.  I’m glad that you can not only heal bodies, but can heal
souls.”

“You’re
not freaked out that I’m going out with a woman?”

“God,
no.  To tell you the truth, I didn’t care for that Chad fellow.”

“Chad? 
How do you know about Chad?”

“He
came over here one day and got some of your old things.”

“What
things?  When?”

“Nothing
important, I don’t think.  Some old stuffed animals from your childhood, your
yearbooks from school.  Hasn’t he told you yet?  He was getting the things to
give to you as a surprise.  I hope I didn’t ruin it.”

“Did
he say or do anything, you know, unusual?”

“Well,
he did call me Mother.  I thought that was strange.”

Amy
decided enough was enough.  She was going to give Chad a strong talking-to. 
And get her things back.

Claire
continued, “Anyway, I’m glad you got rid of him.  Now tell me all about this
young woman of yours.  Does she love you?  What does she do?  Is she as pretty
as she looks in the paper?”

Amy
laughed at her mother’s inquisitiveness and told her all about Jordan.  About
her fall from the window, how she stitched her up, their first kiss,
everything.

“What
do you have planned for the rest of the day?” Claire asked.

Uh
oh, Amy thought, here it comes.  She’ll want me to go dumpster diving with her.
“I don’t know…” she stuttered.

“Well,
I have the perfect thing.  Why don’t you go to the bathroom and freshen up
some?  Maybe brush the coffee grounds out of your hair?”

“Where
are we going?”

“You’ll
see,” Claire said.  “Now go splash on some patchouli, baby, you really do smell
over-ripe.”

A Big, Fat, Gay Wedding

Ten
minutes later, Amy was wearing a tie-dyed dress of Claire’s.  She had so much
patchouli splashed on that she smelled as though she’d just gotten back from a
Grateful Dead concert. They both squeezed into the Smart car
and Claire directed Amy to the posh side of
town. 

Amy
chanced a question she had long wanted to know the answer to.  “Did you love
Daddy?”

“Oh,
yes.”

“Did
he love you?”

“In
his way,” Claire said.  “Take the Columbia exit.  The house is in the Kenton
District.  I think he was in love with the idea of being in love but whenever
our love became deeper and required a fuller commitment, he flitted off like a
humming bird at a feeder.  Now turn right on Denver.”

Amy
turned.  She hoped she didn’t inherit her father’s genetics.  The flitting
part, anyway.  She didn’t want to be a hummingbird.  She wanted to be a
penguin.  They mated for life.

“You
can park right here.”

Amy
pulled over in front of an old yet beautifully restored Victorian house. 
Everything was perfect and very coordinated and looked like Martha Stewart
lived here.  Then it dawned on her.  “Do gay men live here?”

“They
do.  It’s their wedding we’re doing the decorating for.”

“And
they’re letting you?”

“Lillian
is the decorator.  I’m just her helper.  C’mon, Lillian will be so happy to see
you again.”  Claire opened her door then froze, looking back at Amy.  “You
don’t have to come in.  If you don’t want to.”

“Of
course I want to,” Amy said.

Claire’s
face lit up and Amy realized at that moment that she’d been steering clear of
her mother for a long time and it was hurting her.  She hadn’t meant to hurt
her, but she had.  She felt immensely guilty and resolved to spend more time
with her mother from here on out.

Claire
rang the doorbell that was shaped like a
fleur de lis
.  It was brass and
was polished recently, probably every day at ten sharp.

Meet
Desmond Quartermaine. 
A
perfectly turned out man with heavy brows and thick dark hair opened the door. 
In a voice that seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, he exclaimed, “Oh my
God, Claire, you’ve got to help.  It’s a disaster!”

“Desmond,
this is my daughter, Amy.  She’s a lesbian.”

If
Desmond was shocked by Claire’s pronouncement he didn’t show it.  He barely
nodded at her before grabbing Claire’s arm, pulling her into the house and
pleading, “It’s a disaster, Claire, you have to help.”

“Where’s
Lillian?” Claire inquired.

“She’s
in the pond.”  He fanned himself with his hand.

“Why
is she in the pond?” Claire asked as Desmond lead them through the most perfect
house Amy had ever seen.

“Because
of the frogs.  That’s the disaster.  It’s like one of the seven plagues on
Egypt.  Frogs everywhere!”

They
followed Desmond through the house at such a brisk pace that Amy only glimpsed
flashes of divans, ottomans, book shelves lined with leather-bound copies of
books, gilded table lamps, tasseled pillows, and lots of gold brocade.

When
they stepped out the back door and into the yard there was a gazebo, a myriad
of benches strategically placed, perfectly manicured hedges, and several gazing
balls.  And in the thick of it all was Lillian, wearing hip waders and standing
in the middle of the pond with a net in her hands.

Meet
Lillian Drake
. 
Lillian made perfect look easy.  She called everyone darling and blew air
kisses.  Even in hip waders, her lipstick wasn’t smeared and her hair didn’t
look messy; it looked windblown.  She was overweight, but bore the weight like
it was a privilege and something to be admired.

Claire
and Lillian had been best friends since their sorority days.  They were an odd
match, but inseparable. What Amy found so interesting with Lillian was that she
supported her mother in whatever endeavor she took on, no questions asked.

“Amy!”
Lillian said, putting the net down and slogging across the yard.  “Darling, how
are you?”  She wrapped Amy in a warm embrace and air kissed both her cheeks. 
“I haven’t seen you in ages.  Come let me look at you.”  She looked Amy up and
down.  “You look more like your mother every day.”

“Well,
I am wearing her clothes,” Amy said, trying hard not to feel self-conscious.

“Amy
is a lesbian now,” Claire said proudly like Amy had won the Nobel Prize.

Lillian’s
eyes widened.  “Really, dear?  That is
wunderbar
.”

“Now
about those frogs,” Desmond tittered.

“No
worries, I think I’ve gotten rid of them and their soon-to-be offspring,”
Lillian said.

“They
were so disgusting,” Desmond said, flapping his hand in front of his face. 
“Nature is so…”

Claire
filled in, “Natural?”

“Disgusting,”
Desmond said.

Lillian
whispered
sotto voce
to Amy, “It’s the green sludge he doesn’t like.”
Lillian sat on a bench and began to tug off the hip waders.  She was having
difficulty getting them off.  It was like trying to peel a sausage.  Amy took a
boot and pulled.  “Thank you, darling.”  Together they removed Lillian from the
hip waders.

“Now,
Desmond,” Lillian said, taking his arm.  “Why don’t you make us some of that
divine lemonade of yours and we’ll take a break and regroup afterwards.  That way,
we can all catch our breath.”

Desmond
seemed delighted.  “That’s a marvelous idea.”  He lifted a small, discreet
walkie-talkie to his mouth and commanded, “Bring a pitcher of lemonade and five
glasses.  Miss Lillian is parched from her frog killing spree.”  He turned back
to Lillian and said, “You are my savior.  You are my Rambo of the pond.  The
Terminator of frogs.  Whatever would I do without you?”

“You
would manage, I am sure, darling,” Lillian said.

Desmond
looked at his watch.  “Oh no, the yo-yo’ers will be here soon.”  He put his
hand to his forehead in a very theatrical swoon.  “I wish Evan didn’t have his
heart set on the yo-yo’ers for entertainment.  It’s so tasteless.  The cabaret
thing I wanted at least had class.”

“Desmond,
we talked about this,” Lillian soothed.

“I
know.  I know.  It’s his wedding too,” Desmond said, pouting.  “It’s just so
tawdry,” he muttered as he walked toward the house.

“And
cabaret dancers are so high class,” Lillian muttered.

“So,
this seems like a rather unusual wedding,” Amy said.

A
young woman came out holding a silver tray with a cut-glass pitcher of fresh
lemonade and five glasses.  “Is this where the sane people gather?” she asked.

Meet
Janice Cohen. 
Janice
was very pretty under the military buzz cut and facial piercings.  She even had
a nice body, if you could find it under the extra large sweatshirt and baggy
gray chinos.  Her aura screamed feminist, but her lingering gaze at Amy
whispered lesbian.

Lillian
looked relieved.  “Oh darling, thank goodness you’re here.  He’s out of control
again.”

Janice
set the platter down.  “I know.  He’s hyperventilating all over the kitchen.”

“But,
I got all the frogs and the green stuff.  The pond looks fine,” Lillian said. 
“I mean it is a pond; it’s going to have pond stuff.”

“No,
it’s not that,” Janice said, pouring lemonade all around.  “Now, he’s fighting
with Evan about the yo-yo’ers.”  She handed Amy a glass of lemonade.  “I don’t
think we’ve met.  I’m Janice. Desmond’s friend, but don’t hold that against
me.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry.  Where are my manners,” Lillian said.  “This is Amy.  She’s a
lesbian.”

“It’s
nice to meet you.  Why haven’t I seen you out before?”

“Out?”
Amy said.

“You
know, in the clubs.  Or events.  Or potlucks,” Janice said.

“She’s
a brand-new lesbian,” Claire said.  “A late bloomer.”

“Fresh
meat,” Janice said.

“Huh?”
Amy said, alarmed.  She nervously gulped her lemonade.

“Have
you been initiated yet?”

Amy
slowly shook her head and took another gulp.

Janice
leered and wagged her eyebrows.  “Maybe I can initiate you, then. It doesn’t
hurt.  Much.  Well, it only hurts the first time.  I need a new toaster oven
anyway.”

What
was this woman talking about? Amy was befuddled.  Befuddled?  Was that really a
word?  Or was it confuddled?  She was confuddled and befused.

Janice
took her arm.  “Are you okay?  You looked like you were going to faint.  I was
only kidding.  Lesbian humor.  It was a joke.”

“Oh,”
Amy said and forced a fake-sounding chuckle.

“So
who’s the girl?” Janice asked.

“Girl?”

“Yeah,
what lucky woman rescued you from the bondage of heterosexuality?”

“Oh. 
Her name is Jordan March.”

“You’re
dating Jordan March?
The
Jordan March?” Janice said.

Amy
didn’t know exactly how to take this.  Did she mean to imply Amy wasn’t good
enough to date someone like Jordan March or that Jordan March was a bad person
to date?

“Unless
there’s another Jordan March,” Amy said, tentatively.  She almost hoped there
might be two of them and Amy got the good one, not the one this woman knew.

“She’s
tall, gorgeous, talented, witty, and lives in that crazy house in the old part
of town where all the mansions are?” Janice said.

Lillian
and Claire were conspicuously silent.  Amy knew they loved getting the info
without having to be the ones to extract it. She could feel their eyes on her.

“Yep,
that’s her.”

“How’d
you manage that?  She never dates anyone, especially after the Ice Queen
episode.”

Lillian
couldn’t help herself.  “Ice Queen?”

“She
was Jordan’s last girlfriend.  Her name is Petronella and she’s a professor at
the University and she’s a poet and she is the nastiest person I have ever
met.  She’s having some big poetry-reading thing at the New Little Theatre
tonight.  I’m going.”

“So
am I,” Amy said.  “I mean, Jordan and I are going.”

“Can
straight people come, too?” Lillian asked.

“Sure,”
Janice said. 

Lillian
poked Claire in the ribs with her elbow. “Let’s go crash the lesbian party.  It
sounds fun.”

“Oh,
Petronella’s poetry isn’t fun,” Janice said.  “It’s angry.  You know how Rita
Mae Brown’s cat, Sneaky Pie Brown, started writing mystery novels?  Well,
Petronella is now writing poetry with her vagina.  She’s named it Vagina
Woolf.”

Claire
clapped her hands.  “That sounds wonderful!  Maybe I can get some ideas for my
sculptures.”

Before
Amy could object to her mother crashing her date, there was the sound of metal
crashing against metal, and a high-pitched scream.  The back door was thrown
open and six muscular, oiled, naked men strutted into the back yard with their
doodles dangling.  They lined up in a chorus line, and began to yo-yo and kick
step in perfect synchronization.

Claire
and Lillian sat in rapt attention.  Amy and Janice exchanged a confuddled
look.  “I think that’s my cue to leave,” Amy said.