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Hannah and I were hiding from the rest of the guests at her parents’ annual Christmas party. Half of Stoningham, Connecticut, our hometown, was here, and we’d grown tired of that well meaning but repetitive holiday chatter—Hi, Mrs. Winston, how are you? Great, great. Nope, not married. No, no kids. Not that I know of, anyway, ha ha. I think I’d remember being pregnant… Yep, still at the fire department (me), or Still teaching fourth grade (Hannah). We were in that weird grown but still kids zone, never to be viewed as a legit adult, since most of these guests had watched us grow up.
My parents were here as well, and I’d seen Mom sniffing the air for a hint of homophobia, a maternal bloodhound ready to pounce, leopard-like, and defend my honor. She lived for that, inviting commentary with three gay pride bumper stickers (rainbow flag, of course; Proud Parent of a Gay Firefighter; and I love my gay daughter). She often handed out my number to women she assumed were gay. “I have excellent gaydar,” she said, which was a bald-faced lie. My dad, on the other hand, was a lot more chill, agreeing with everything Mom said and did, gamely cracking the occasional Dad-joke, the sweetest guy in the world, and the king of nonconfrontation. Theirs was an opposites attract situation.
Hannah nudged me. “Come on. It’s twelve degrees out. I’m freezing and starving. Let’s go in.”
“My torso says yes. My legs say stay a little longer until the sweat freezes.” I’d worn pleather pants, a tactical mistake.
“Did someone tell you pleather was a breathable fabric? Did they, Samantha Lewis? You’re a firefighter. Do those look like you could escape in case of emergency?”
“Why did you convince me to buy them, then?”
“Because your ass looks magnificent.” Hannah laughed and patted my butt. “Damn. Seriously. I wish I was gay.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Where’s Judith, by the way?” Hannah asked. I’d known it was just a matter of time. “Oh, wait, let me guess. Something…came up.” She made finger quotes around the last two words.
“Something came up,” I concurred. Something always came up when Judith was supposed to appear with me.
“You deserve better, Sam.”
I didn’t respond.
“Okay. I’m off to get another disgusting martini and eat some of those chestnuts wrapped in bacon. I’ll save you one.”
“Save me ten,” I said. She opened the sliding glass door, the sounds of the party slipping out, then cutting off as she closed it behind her.
I did deserve better than Judith. Well, Judith was amazing as a person. As a partner…a girlfriend…not so much. We’d been together for six months, and we were exclusive, something we agreed on the first date. We saw each other two or three times a week. At her place, mostly, sometimes mine, and almost never in public. She wasn’t closeted about being gay…I think she was just closeted about being with me.
The thing was, her reasons for blowing me off always seemed so reasonable, so logical, so British. Something had come up. This time, it was work. Judith was a gallery artist who sold giant, colorful post-post-modern paintings and the occasional sculpture. When I reminded her that she made her own hours, she said it was an emergency commission with a fat price tag. How could I argue with that? I could not.
Last weekend, she’d had “a cold.” She texted the news, told me to stay away so I shouldn’t catch anything, and was sorry to miss “your thing.” (Drinks with friends, so I could introduce them to her, and vice versa). I offered to bring soup, was told it wasn’t necessary and brought it anyway. I heard her singing in her apartment, but she didn’t answer the door. Nor did she sound particularly congested or scratchy. I left the Tupperware on her doorstep. She didn’t mention it. I’m not sure she even ate it.
Just before the Stoningham Fire Department’s fabulous Christmas party earlier in December, she’d had to “ring up” her sister for a chat since “it’s been ages. I’ll be quite quick. Off you go!” The call began ten minutes before we were supposed to have left and lasted all the way till the end of the party. When I told her how disappointed I was, she said, “But Samantha, it's my sister! You know how Cressida can be.” I didn’t, of course. Judith never talked about her family.
I wasn’t stupid. It was clear she wasn’t comfortable with our coupledom, not yet. I hoped it would change. It had to, right? I tried to talk to her about it…did she want to be a couple? “Of course, you silly duck,” she said. “But I need space. As do you, of course.”
And so my questions and insecurity (and irritation) would melt at the sight of her Paul Hollywood-blue eyes and the kiss-kiss on each cheek. When we did see each other, it could be magical. “Darling!” she’d exclaim. “You’re here! Brilliant.” Like most Americans, I got weak in the knees at the sound of a British accent. “Tea?” she’d ask, and even though I viewed tea as dirty, flavorless water, I would accept a cuppa and listen to her talk.
Judith Baines was beautiful and talented. She was a visiting artist, courtesy of Sadie Frost’s gallery. Last summer, I’d been invited to the opening, since I went to grammar school with Sadie. On that balmy evening, I wandered around, admiring Sadie’s pretty skyscapes, then stopped in front of one of the guest artist’s work. To me, it looked like a kindergartener had guzzled a liter of Coke, eaten fistfuls of Coco-Puffs and grabbed some fingerpaints. To the critic from the New York Times, it was a searing image of suppressed female rage and feral beauty.
“What do you think?” asked a British voice. I turned, looked into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and fell in love. “It’s not terribly awful, is it?”
“It’s so…” I grasped for a word, any word, to impress the magical creature in front of me. “So emotional.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. Her dark blond hair fell in a perfect satin curtain to her shoulder blades She was slim as a reed, dressed in a silky black dress and Doc Marten boots. “I’m Judith.”
And so began my painful, glorious, wretched relationship with a woman who made it clear she had no desire to marry anyone, ever. She didn’t want children. She didn’t want a cat. A woman who said things like, “I adore you provincial Americans” in response to a comment I made about a book, movie or painting. Who chuckled when I told her I loved her, but said nothing back. Whose smile was as beautiful as a Hawaiian sunset, whose small, plump breasts were utter perfection, whose twinkly smile made my heart leap with delight, whose toes were the most adorable things I’d ever seen. The sex was so hot that this firefighter staggered home. Because I was always sent home, even though when we were at my place, she always stayed over.
I sighed. Another ten minutes on the Grimaldis’ deck, and I’d freeze to death. Time to go inside. I drained the last of my sugary martini, appreciating the buzz if not the flavor, and went inside to the roar of the party. There were my parents at the end of the vast living room. I could hang out with them, since Hannah was my only true friend here. Sure, I’d babysat for a lot of these folks, or their kids had babysat me. I’d just have to wind past sixty or eighty people, all of whom knew me. Some I’d seen at their worst—a broken hip after slipping in the shower, a roll-over because they’d been doing 80 instead of 45, a fire where they sobbed as we tromped through their house.
The sweat on my pleather-clad legs was making the fabric stick like glue, and there was a small meep of friction every time I took a step. “Hi, Mrs. Churchill, how are you?” Meep.
“Lovely to see you, dear. How’s your brother?”
