Authors: Lee Lynch
Gabby agreed. “What are we going to do, grab her back?”
“Jef wants to know where she is and if she’s safe. Seeing her here would give that to you, Jef, wouldn’t it?”
She nodded, eyes closed, one hand on each of her friends. “I could sit on the sidewalk with a tin cup, begging for information.”
“Maybe there’s a secretary inside—”
“What I was thinking,” Lily Ann said. “I’ll go in, say I was supposed to meet Mitchell here.”
She gave Lily Ann an encouraging push toward the door. “You go, girl.”
Gabby handed her a bottle of green tea from the cooler. She held it against her hot cheek, watching the doorway for Lily Ann now. “You guys are good to me.”
Gabby harrumphed in the backseat. “What the heck. Amaretto’s working today, there’s no games on the tube. It’s a nice ride in the country.”
“This is what you call country?”
The street was all but treeless, the pavement littered. A vacant lot stood to the other side of the yellow bushes, and across the street was a storefront church, abandoned after the morning services.
“New Rochelle was country when I was growing up.”
“No secretary,” Lily Ann said when she returned. “But there was a guy smoking outside the back door. Tried to register me. Told him Mitchell Para had recommended them. Nada. Not a flicker. He either really doesn’t know Mitchell or he’s a good poker player.”
“Thanks for trying, Lil.” She squeezed Lily Ann’s upper arm. “You’re too good of a friend for this old sad sack.”
Gabby rolled her eyes. “So what’s Plan B?”
Lily Ann started back toward the city and suggested, “Jef, I think you should leave a message asking Ginger to call you.”
“I already did. Three times.”
“Hoo, boy,” Gabby commented.
“They can’t stay away forever,” Lily Ann said. “We watch Mitchell’s apartment.”
“We have jobs,” Jefferson said.
“Yo—what about where he works?”
“I don’t want to see Mitchell, Gab. I want Ginger.”
“So you follow him.”
“Home?”
“Maybe he’s not going home. Maybe they’re staying with friends. You know, till they think they’re safe at his place.”
“Maybe he moved,” Lily Ann said.
“So now we have three places to watch? His apartment, if it’s still his. His work, if he still works there. Someplace new, if we can follow him to it.”
“Right,” Gabby agreed.
“Listen,” Lily Ann said. “It’s not like this has to be twenty-four-hour surveillance. We stop by and watch a while on our way to and from places. We check in the night before to see who goes where.”
“What about me?” Gabby said. “I live a block from work at the Femmes.”
“Hey, right. You keep listening. Maybe he’ll show up in the bars. Or contact someone in the community. Put the word out. These are our people. We all hate these make-’em-straight groups.”
Jefferson said, “I should be making these plans, not leaving it to you.”
“J, that’s like saying somebody burned in a fire should heal herself. You’re injured, practically critical. You need to let us be your nurses.”
She shrugged. “Okay, but I get to feel guilty.”
“Have at it.”
“You femmes are much stronger than us butches. And more honest.”
“No doubt about it.”
“Hey,” Gabby said, “you’re supposed to argue about that.”
Mitchell Para’s day job was in a building on the West Side. Instead of hanging around it, risking a return of the despair inactivity brought on, Jefferson decided to storm the office. Mitchell had explained that it was a small food-brokerage firm called Faster Foods that had been founded by his straight, cigar-chomping brother Morton. No one was at the front desk, so she peered around the paneled partition that screened seven men at desks clumped so close together she couldn’t imagine they’d be able to hear anyone on the headsets that clung to their heads. Every one of them was smoking. There were two doors with frosted windows, both closed to the warm spring air. Her heart beat faster to think Mitchell might be inside one of those offices.
One man looked up from his computer screen. “Help you?”
“Mitchell Para?”
He motioned to the office behind him on his right.
Jefferson threaded her way through the desks, waste baskets, and electrical wiring. Classy place to work, Mitch, she thought and buried her hands more deeply in the pockets of her hoodie. The men barked into their phones, punched at keyboards, yelled questions at each other. She breathed in so much cigarette smoke she coughed as she knocked on the door.
“Yeah!”
It wasn’t Mitchell, but a shorter, heavier look-alike who had adopted the shoddy day-old-beard look.
“I know you?” he asked.
A trembling started inside. “Jefferson. I’m a friend of Mitchell’s. Is he here?”
“What kind of friend doesn’t know he’s on his honeymoon?”
Her face went cold. Now she was trembling all over. “Honeymoon?”
“Might as well be. Shacked up with a woman, no phone, announced he would be gone two months.”
“Where?”
“The Caribbean? Brazil? Who knows with my
meshugana
brother? Why? He owe you money?”
“No.” She’d tried to come up with explanations on her way there, but not seriously, half expecting to see Mitchell, to hear that Ginger was staying with him until she found her own place. “Who did he abscond with?”
“The little
faigele
finally got himself a woman. What’s her name, some Irish redhead.”
She reached to the desk to steady herself.
“You want to leave a message?” He was watching her. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re the two-timing girlfriend. The one she was leaving, aren’t you?”
When Jefferson didn’t respond, Mitchell’s brother said, “You people. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Sleeping with anything that moves. You girls are as bad as the guys.”
“Where did they go?” she asked again, refusing to break eye contact.
“I need this like
loch im kopf.
I can’t tell you. Mitch would break my neck.”
“I want to know she’s safe.”
He gave a disgusted-sounding laugh. “With my brother, believe me, she’s safe.”
She placed her hands on the desk and looked down at the man. “I can go to the police, tell them I think she’s been kidnapped.”
“What are you doing? Threatening me?” He carefully chose a cigar. “You think the police would rescue a woman who went willingly with a man and bring her back to a creature like you? They would laugh you out of the station.”
She thought of a hundred things to say, but they were all lame. He was right. She wanted to threaten him, to hit him until he told her. Why not? What did she have to lose?
“Are they here in the city?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not playing games, Para,” she said, her anger building.
“Good. Then why not leave before me and my brokers decide to play games with you.”
“You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you,” she said, poking his arm hard with an index finger.
“Did you say you’re leaving?”
She moved abruptly away from his desk. Did he cringe? There was an old wooden desk chair behind her. Its springs creaked as she sat in it. “I’d love to leave, but I haven’t gotten what I came for yet.”
“All right already. They’re in the city. At Mitch’s place. You have the address?”
“Don’t bullshit me. They’re not at Mitchell’s.”
“Okay, okay. They’re upstate. The family has a cabin up in the Catskills. That address I’m not giving you. Not that the address would help. It has an electronic gate and a stone wall twice your height, topped by shards of glass. If you found it, you’d never get in.”
With a feeling of great exhaustion and that threat of returning despair, she sat back in the unsteady chair and folded her arms, silent, thinking she’d need a ladder and some blankets to protect her from the glass. “I’m not leaving until you give me what I need. And I don’t mean lies.”
“Fine. No big problem. You sit there while I tell you what I think. God made us to mate with the opposite sex. What you and my brother do is a perversion. Your lives are filth. Your whole existence is about satisfying your basest physical urges, like animals, and you never produce children, the whole reason behind those urges. You spread disease and you lead children into ugly lives like your own because you can’t stand being alone in your ways. This Ginger was probably a very normal person until you debased her.”
Instead of telling him to shut up or walking out, she listened. So this was how straight people thought of her. She wondered briefly if they could be right and if losing Ginger was her punishment.
She sat there like a weighted punching bag enduring its blows as Mo went on.
“It’s sick, this hang-up you people have with the same sex. You know it can be cured, yet you do nothing. Mitchell has gotten help. Our rabbi sent him to a group that cures this curse and he’s now his natural self. Too bad he didn’t cure him of his love of goyim, but I won’t go into that.”
She kept her eyes down, hugging herself. The more Mitchell’s brother talked, the closer he was getting to spilling the beans.
“Our congregation is supporting my brother in every way,” and he named a large synagogue Jefferson had heard Mitchell mention.
She shut out Mo’s words as she searched her memory. It was in Brooklyn where Mitchell had grown up. He’d driven them past the beautiful old building and told them how much he wished his family, conservative Jews, would wake up and smell the coffee. More and more the conservative movement was turning toward acceptance, but not his family, he had said with a curse of disgust. Now she was getting a taste of what Mitchell had gone through. And Ginger’s Catholic family must have preached the same general disapproval, though she had never come out to them. “Why break my mother’s heart?” Ginger had asked, while Jefferson wondered if Ginger’s stony mother even had a heart that could break. “They’d think I was going to hell and that I would never meet them in heaven.”
Jefferson could say nothing. She had never come out to Emmy and Jarvy either; it hadn’t seemed worth the effort. She figured they knew and didn’t want to get into it either. Since Ginger always had to go “home” for holidays, she went to her family alone too, if she went at all.
Mo was still lecturing when she decided that he wasn’t letting anything else slip out. Without a word, she rose to go.
“Here,” Mo said, thrusting a pamphlet at her. “You can get help too. My people can refer you to your own groups.”
“What is this?” she asked, and read aloud, “‘JONAH is a nonprofit international organization dedicated to educating the worldwide Jewish community about the prevention, intervention, and healing of the underlying issues causing same-sex attractions. JONAH: Jews Offering New Alternatives to Homosexuality.’”
She banged the rolled-up pamphlet against the desk and looked at this man, sick to her stomach. “What is their problem? What is your problem? This is none of your business—their business.” She looked at the back, which referred to something called NARTH, National Association for Research and Therapy for Homosexuality. “You’re nuts,” she said. The address for JONAH was in Jersey City, practically on the other side of the Holland Tunnel. They’d been watching the wrong place up in New Rochelle. Honeymooning in Jersey City? Not my Ginger, she thought, and smiled at Mo, poor obsessed Morton Para. Feeling taller than when she arrived and more hopeful, she stomped in her best butch manner out through the clutter of barking men and their electronics.
Whenever she thought about Ginger with Mitchell, which was endlessly, Jefferson felt as if she was the burning wick of an explosive.
Dry-eyed for the most part, shriveled with regret, she waited for the suicide bomb in her heart to go off. Only the routine of teaching and being with her friends kept her intact. She battered herself with questions: How could she have been so stupid? The drinking, the chasing, her silent sulking because she never came with Ginger and Ginger didn’t really try, never asked. She should have talked about it with Ginger instead of letting it become her wedge between them—she had driven Ginger away. Glad had been right. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Orgasms were wonderful, when they came, but not as wonderful as the rush of pleasure to hear a lover cry “Oh God!” or call her name over and over: that was love!
At the same time, Ginger was so absorbed in her work, had for so long spent all her spare time on performance. Ginger, she thought: named for a dancer. Ginger had spent her whole life living up to that name. It was how she begged for love, by giving her heart to dance, the only way she could earn her mom’s smiles and brags. They’d had this in common, the way they spoke with their bodies. She tried to put her feelings into words, but she’d never been articulate enough. She’d always spoken to women through lovemaking and still wanted to express herself with her hands. That’s when she knew, instinctually, how to say what she wanted; that was the language she spoke.
But she couldn’t blame anything on Ginger. Dance was her work, her passion, as Jefferson’s seemed to have been that constant search for love, or what passed for love. Maybe Lily Ann and Gabby were right: it was as if she was making up for Ginger’s inattention by finding substitutes. Filling up on cake because all she got of steak was the bone. It was so hard, though, to admit she’d chosen wrong, that Ginger had been bad for her. She tried now to remember the good parts, but they were overshadowed by the harm—the harm to both of them.