by:Jean Roberta

WARNING: Sexual frustration. Brief references to child sexual abuse, not erotically described.

Three months before, I had heard about the couple’s housewarming to celebrate their purchase of a new house. Markie had told me at work the next morning that “everyone we know was there.” I was privileged to hear such things when Markie and I worked together. My stint with her on a writing project for a feminist organization had been a gift from the Goddess. Like the other lucky breaks that sometimes came my way, it hadn’t lasted.

Thinking about inviting Markie and her mate to eat with us made me wonder why every dilemma in my life seemed to involve food or the lack of it. Food, not fat, was the feminist issue that dominated my life.

On this hopeful spring night, however, I was going to be filled with wine, music and good company at the womyn’s coffee house. I hoped my mood would rub off on Emma as I walked her down the hall to stay with Darrel, the thirteen-year-old son of a hard-drinking divorced father who was my neighbor in the low-income single-parent co-op. “Why can’t Stephanie babysit me?” Emma demanded for the third time. Stephanie was a startlingly mature fourteen-year-old with an unworldly, pale and elfin face, a mane of black hair, and a burning desire to become an actress. Emma was already her fan.

“I told you she’s busy tonight,” I told her again. “She can babysit you next time. You like Darrel, don’t you?”

“He’s not as nice as Stephanie.”

“Well, he’s a boy,” I explained. “Sometimes you just have to take what you can get. I’m sure he tries to be nice, and you don’t have to stay with him that long. You can go to sleep soon anyway.”

After leaving my pouting daughter with the babysitter who was my last choice, I jogged to the bus stop to the rhythm of “It’ll be all right,” the mantra of a single mother.

I arrived early, while Markie and a lucky circle of her close friends were setting up equipment on the small stage. The rest of the room was lit by shaded candles on little tables draped in cozy checked tablecloths. As soon as I walked in, I felt embraced by the spirit of sisterhood.

I noticed that Markie was sporting a newly-dyed crewcut in a deliberately brassy shade of blonde. Before I could get used to her new look, she made a great show of recognizing me. “Hi!” she called. “Fancy meeting you here.” She was making sure that everyone around her noticed me too. “Would you like to give us a hand?” Of course.

After she had shown me how to adjust the microphone to the level of her mouth (so close to mine!), Markie casually mentioned that Elaine was out of town for the weekend. “Why don’t you sit here?” she suggested, showing me a table near the stage. She seemed to be showing me that my position there would be a logical consequence of Elaine’s absence. I gratefully accepted her offer.

The rest of the space was soon filled with other women, most of whom I knew from the lesbian dances and potlucks. Markie sat with me while waiting to mount the stage, and I was conscious of being chosen. The efforts of the surrounding sisters to get us both into separate conversations were annoying, especially when someone had the gall to ask me whether I was “seeing” anyone these days. I wondered why the inquisitor couldn’t see the obvious, and then I scared myself by suspecting that she did.

Markie was only one of several women performers, but I assumed that she was the major draw. She sang two sets, accompanying herself on the guitar. In the first set, she sang the songs I thought of as her classics, including Emma’s favorite, “Baby Bunny,” and my favorite, “Stories of Joan of Arc,” which she sometimes sang in French, under the title “Le Reve de Jeanne d’Arc.”

Like all other lesbians and French-speaking people, Markie revered a peasant girl who had followed her calling to save a kingdom despite great odds and at great cost, and whose name looked like the original version of mine. I knew that Markie took French lessons to maintain her fluency in the mother tongue of her childhood and to remain eligible for well-paid government jobs that required a working knowledge of both the official languages of Canada.

Mark and Elaine had told me about Mark’s exotic roots: she was the youngest child born to an English Canadian farmer and the Belgian bride he had brought home from World War II. I had even met Mark’s widowed mother, who vaguely reminded me of Edith Piaf.

During the break between sets, Mark bought me a glass of white wine. She was treating me like her date, and her unexpected attention was making me stutter. I knew how fast gossip circulated in our community, and I thought I could hear the whispers already. I felt helpless to control other people’s appetites for juicy stories.

At the beginning of her second set, the diva did something that made me feel faint. She introduced her first song by explaining that its title was inspired by a line from a poem by one of the unsung heroines in her life: me. She pointed me out to the audience, and the woman working the spotlights co-operated by blinding me with white light. It was like a near-death experience.

After that, every song she sang sounded like a serenade to me. I knew I would wake up from this dream (le reve d’amour) sooner or later, probably sooner, and that the awakening would be painful. For the moment, however, life was sweet.

After the performance, women lingered to drink and chat, but Markie told me she wanted to pack up and leave early. She offered me a ride, and I accepted. After basking in her reflected glow, I didn’t want to be left alone to deal with the comments of observers. By leaving with her, of course, I would be adding fuel to the fire, but I wouldn’t have to worry about burning bridges until later. The immediate prospect of being alone with Markie distracted me from all other concerns.

© (c) 1999 by jean Roberta All right reserved.