Folly (14 page)

Folly didn't want to move. She felt infused by the warmth and energy coming from Martha's hand. She felt young and realized she had been feeling old for years. She could not remember ever feeling this young, even when Barnie had come along and ridden her on his motor scooter. She had not known what to expect, but still she had not felt innocent. She had known in some part of her that he would lead
her into the woods, she had known that he was in search of a way to satisfy himself and that she would be instrumental. She would not have been able to express these things, but she had not been innocent to them. This feeling with Martha of being on this planet together, of feeling light, almost without gravity, as other planets looked on them, of not knowing of or caring for any other moment than the one that was occuring, this feeling held Folly encircled by Martha's unspoken love and seemed the closest she had ever come to a magical state. She looked at Martha in the dark and breathed deeply.

“Do you smell flowers?” she asked Martha.

“Yes.” Martha sighed. Then she faced Folly squarely and enfolded her in her arms and let herself feel what came with the closeness—the flow of her desire no longer resisted, the smell of Folly's skin next to her nose, the sense of her love as being worthy of expression. Folly embraced Martha in return. She felt taken in, full with her innocence, not taken over but cared for, surrounded by Martha's large soft arms. Martha's soft, soft cheek pressed firmly against her own. She could not resist the wholeness she felt and the sense of belonging. Perhaps it had been coming all along. She didn't know. She would think later. Now it was enough to feel.

When they moved out of the embrace, she touched her own cheek with her hand. She had not realized how soft she might feel to someone else, the way her babies had felt when they were still with sleep or rocking in her lap. They started back. She walked with amazement, her other hand in Martha's. Her skin had come alive in a way she would not have believed possible. When their entwined hands touched her leg, her leg lept with an impulse that went straight to her heart, stopped her breath and made her limbs tingle.

Her sensations were so acute they were nearly painful, while exquisite, and her breath kept catching. Martha put the chain on the door. They undressed, and Martha moved all their junk onto one bed. Folly sat on the edge of the other bed, feeling dazed, wanting to help but not doing so—only watching Martha, whose body she had never seen or thought of seeing like this before. Martha went to the other side and together they folded the spread down to the foot of the bed. They did this with the ease of their habit of folding the sheets together. Then they moved into each other on top of the light, cotton blanket. Martha placed the kisses she had held in her fantasies up and down Folly's body. She stroked the length of her and felt the warmth flood to her own vulva. So long she had waited for release. She pressed against Folly and felt her own excitement travel through Folly and back inside
herself. She gasped at the strength of the current, licked Folly's nipples, which rose, budlike to her tongue. She wanted to move down, to part Folly's legs and taste her there, but she worried that Folly might resist. She had known women who did not like this. She put one of her legs between Folly's and it was grasped in the heat of Folly's thighs. Locked, they began to move as one in the rhythm that still pulsed in Martha's heart—I love you, I love you. Folly cried out, her head arched backwards. Martha opened her eyes and looked on her face of innocence, then melted into Folly's orgasm and joined her cry.

For a long time after, they lay perfectly still, listening to the peace inside themselves, and outside, the hoot owl somewhere off in the woods behind the motel, celebrating the silence of the night.

“Why didn't you tell me this was here,” Folly asked, hours later, as they lay with the sheet draped over them, one pair of legs still entwined.

“Oh, God. Don't ask me,” Martha sighed. “Why didn't I?”

Folly lit a cigarette and balanced the ashtray on the spot where her legs formed a V. She emitted smoke rings and watched them rise to the ceiling. “What does it mean? What do we do with it?”

“Take it. It means I love you.” Martha had said it during the lovemaking, but this was her first time speaking those words outside of passion.

Folly was looking sideways at her. “Love . . . I don't have it meaning much but a word in me. I thought I should have it for Barnie, so whatever I felt, that was love. First, it was being excited that someone was riding me around on his motor scooter and feeling me up, then it was moving out of the house and in with him, then it was being fucked, cooking for him, doing his laundry and all that. Then I said, ‘The hell with this, if this is what love is, I can afford to give it up.'” She turned more fully to Martha. “This is somethin' else. Whatever happened tonight, I didn't even know I was looking for it, I didn't even know it was possible.”

Martha took Folly's hand, brought it to her cheek and pressed it against her face. “Are you okay with it . . . that it happened?”

“Okay? More like born. I just realize I've been dead most of my life. And there you been right next door all this time, keeping quiet about this.”

“You mean to tell me you never even wondered about me?”

Folly had an impulse to deny that she had but didn't follow it. “I can't honestly say I haven't wondered about you, but it's
me
I didn't ever let myself wonder about.” Maybe that wasn't actually so, but just
now she couldn't really think who she had been before. She knew that her world had shifted and when things settled, she'd be standing on new ground. She looked about the room for something to hang the memory of change on, but it was your standard motel room, nothing memorable about it. The carpet had soiled spots from spilled drinks and the wallpaper was a dull green. If she needed something tangible to hold onto for the memory of this night, it would not be the walls or the floor or the ceiling but Martha's large, round breasts, the nipples darker and bigger than her own. It would be her mouth on them, the strangeness of the idea that she could do this, taste another woman's breasts, suckle them as hers had been suckled years before by her children. It would be her ear resting between the soft mounds, hearing the sounds of Martha's heart. She rolled into her again, smelling Martha's odors on her fingers.

As they walked to the garage to pick up the car the next morning, Folly said, “I guess there's times when you can live without sleep.” She felt awake, light, airy, almost confused by her own lack of weight. As if she were chemically altered from her life before orgasm. She and Martha sat in a booth eating grits and eggs and smiling, grinning full face like foolish children, having to look away from each other to get themselves settled enough to swallow.

“I wish we could stay a while longer,” Martha said.

“I don't know if we could stand it,” Folly said, feeling so good she didn't think she could possibly have permanency.

16.

Folly had been flying since the day of the picnic. She and Martha were together all the time, and although there had only been a couple of occasions in the two weeks since when they had been able to escape to Martha's bedroom, what danced constantly in Folly's mind were the impressions and sensations of their lovemaking, and the magic of that was in their most casual touch. Frequently they snuck in these touches—at the factory, driving home, sitting at the kitchen table chopping vegetables for soup. Folly couldn't remember if they had touched before. Certainly they had cooked together often. Certainly they had bumped in the confined space of the trailer. Still, it did not seem possible that they had touched and she had not felt what she felt now. But anything was possible. She was a different person. She went about her world noticing her body. She sat at her chair in the mill and felt herself sitting squarely. She stretched her back, yawned, felt her lungs fill with air, then empty. When she chopped vegetables, she was careful, protective of her fingers.

Not until she watched Mary Lou bagging the groceries with a speed that could only mean fury did the anger of her child begin to penetrate her consciousness of bliss. Mary Lou flicked a bag open, tossed the items from her right hand to her left, then dropped them in the sack. Apple juice, rice, five pounds of flour, corned beef hash, another corned beef hash, two cans of tuna tossed and caught together, Gatorade—the bag was filling fast. Folly's eyes followed the items as they disappeared. Two dozen eggs on top. Too much, Folly was aware, wanted to say something, not the reprimand that would ride a familiar route between
them, something else, but her tongue stuck against her teeth. Mary Lou grabbed the sides of the bag to heave it into the cart. Bottom brushed the lip of the counter, fell out. Apple juice poured on the bag of flour next to Mary Lou's sneaker and formed a puddle. Mary Lou grabbed another sack, flicked it open, went on packing what was left on the counter, wildly, furiously. Gerry, the cashier, stepped to the end of the counter and checked the damages. “Get yourself some replacements,” she said to Folly.

“Will you go get them?” Folly asked Martha. She kept her eye on Mary Lou, who had not looked directly at her the whole time. “What's the matter?”

“Shit,” Mary Lou said under her breath. “Shee-it, shit, shit.” Her mouth was flat, her lips compressed tightly between her epithets. She's going to burst into tears, Folly thought, having known her all her life, but she didn't. She picked up the wet cans, the egg carton oozing yuck, put them on the counter. ‘Shit,” she said once more and deserted.

In the bathroom stall, Mary Lou heaved with sobs, held her hands over her face to silence herself if anyone should enter. She had never cried like this without her mother or Daisy to hold her. She tried to still her chest by breathing against her elbows. She couldn't imagine what was happening down front at the counter. Who was cleaning up her mess? Her mother? Maybe. Would she be waiting for her to come out? She couldn't leave. She was due to work the whole evening until the store closed at nine. She had to go back out there. She went to the sink and wet some paper towels with cold water. Her face was splotched red. How could she go anywhere? She set her mouth in a firm line to control her lips from quivering. Watching herself like this in the mirror, she saw her mother's face in her own. She was moved by the pride she felt in looking like her mother to the point of more tears, which she soaked up with the paper towels.

She was practicing looking normal when Lenore came in. She had squinched up her face intensely, then tried to let the cheek muscles go. She could feel a deep ache in them and a burning in her eyes. This pain seemed more tolerable to her than the hidden pain she felt about her mother, except that it showed, and she had to straighten herself out and get back to work, if she still had a job.

“You okay?” Lenore asked.

‘Yeah.” A tear started and she wiped it from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand in a casual gesture that she hoped Lenore wouldn't notice.

“Gerry said she thought you were upset.”

Mary Lou nodded.

“What got to you?”

Mary Lou shrugged. She wasn't sure her voice was steady enough to answer. She coughed. “A little of everything.” This seemed true, though it did not tell anything. She felt she owed Lenore more since she was the one who had gotten her the job. “I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have walked off like that. Did Peters see?”

“The hell with Peters,” Lenore said. “You did make one spectacular mess, according to Gerry, but she cleaned it up. She says to tell you you owe her one.”

“One what?”

“One clean-up.”

Mary Lou felt immensely relieved.

“Now, tell me, since I didn't see, just what did you make this spectacular mess with?”

“I was baggin' my ma's groceries . . . pissed off, tired . . . threw just about everything into one bag. Then I picked it up . . . splat . . . juice, eggs . . . .” They laughed. “Everything. I might as well have thrown it on the floor in the first place.” They laughed some more. Mary Lou felt the pain in her cheeks with the laughter at the same time she felt release.

“Come over after work tomorrow and we'll cook up something.”

“I'll see. If I can . . . .”

“We better get on back to work before that Peters decides to put on a dress to come in here and see what's going on. Gerry said tell you to unload the boxes of paper products, she'll handle up front.”

“Okay.”

Lenore grabbed Mary Lou's hand and squeezed it hard for a second. “Give yourself a break, kid. You're okay.”

“Yeah,” Mary Lou said, making for the door. She felt as if Lenore's squeeze of her hand was enough to start the tears running all over again, she was so full, so close to spilling.

Grateful to be doing this methodical job of opening the boxes and stacking the various brands of toilet tissue, stamping the price on each one, she felt a tenderness toward herself and toward Gerry and Lenore for understanding. She didn't let herself think directly about her mother but remembered how trapped she had felt by Skeeter calling Tiny
queer.
They'd been in the backyard playing catch and Mary Lou had been flat on her back on her bed trying to think a few things out. At first their
laughter had only mildly distracted her. Then their voices had risen, Tiny's with a whine. “Too fast, Skeeter. Not so hard.” Mary Lou had many times felt the sting on her own palm from Skeeter's hard ball. Tiny again, “I told you not so hard. Now look.”

“Go get it,” Skeeter commanded. “It was your ball.” His voice was changing and went from soft to gruff each time he spoke.

Mary Lou had kneeled on her bed and looked out the window as Tiny ran over into Effie's backyard and got the ball. If it were her playing with Skeeter, she would have thrown him back a hard ball. Tiny wound up and fired, but he was too small to have any real power. Skeeter hurled another spitball and Tiny backed away. His glove tipped it, but the ball went on to the far side of Effie's yard. “I quit,” he said. “You can go for that one.”

“Boohoo,” Skeeter said. “What's the matter? You queer? Poor little queer baby can't catch the ball.”

“You leave him alone,” Mary Lou had screamed. She couldn't remember getting up and running out into the backyard but she'd been there. “You don't call him names. You think you're big stuff. Sure you are, playing with someone half your size.”

Skeeter had walked off to get the ball, Tiny had already gone inside, and Mary Lou felt her fury was only half dispensed. She had returned to her room and laid flat on her back again and this time the word
queer
had played like a broken record on her thoughts. A LIBERATED VIEW OF LESBIANISM—she couldn't remember the first title of the book she had seen at Lenore's. Maybe she should ask to read it because as it was, she had no view, only imaginings and suspicions. She didn't know for sure about anyone, even herself. She knew she didn't want her body blunted by some turkey like Roland. And she didn't want to go around bitter and sexless like her ma had for as long as she could remember. But something had happened to her mother recently. Her ma, who had always been pushing to get through the day, move on to the future, get the money saved, finish her shift, clean up the dishes, now all of a sudden seemed lulled by time; she was more a part of the day she was living. She shared a secret with Martha. They looked at each other all the time as if they were remembering it. At first Mary Lou had thought maybe it was about her, but by now she was sure it wasn't; it had nothing to do with her except that she was left out of it.

By the time she finished stacking all the toilet paper she felt a whole lot better, as if something had washed out of her, though she was not sure what. She went up front to thank Gerry. “I'm not usually such a clutz,” she said.

“We all have our days,” Gerry said, flicking her long, blonde hair over her shoulder with a jerk that excused Mary Lou.

Martha drove and Folly stayed deep in her own thoughts. She despaired of giving up any of what she was experiencing for anyone, yet she knew she had to consider what this meant to her children, at least Mary Lou, who was onto her in some way.
What
she knew was a good question. The way Folly's mind unconsciously followed the curves in the road as they moved closer to home, Martha seemed to follow her thoughts. “What're we gonna do about Mary Lou,” she asked, covering Folly's hand with her own.

Folly felt the current from the touch as it made a rush direct to her heart, brain and loins simultaneously. How could she explain this to her daughter? She couldn't explain it to herself. “I've always been honest with her, except that time the counselor was worried about her hanging around with Lenore.”

Martha was silent, remembering how she'd been frightened and provoked by that incident, hurt even. She wasn't ready to share this with Folly yet, not until Folly could speak more what their relationship meant to her.

“I guess I have to tell her,” Folly said, her voice lacking its usual firmness.

“What will you say?”

“I don't know . . . . At least I don't know how. I'll say I found part of myself I didn't know I had. That I love you and I know that can't be bad . . . that I always did love you before, but I didn't know what it was to meet you in this other way.”

Martha squeezed Folly's hand. “She's a stubborn damn kid,” Folly said. “I don't know if she'll let me tell her anything.”

“She will when she's ready.”

If I am, Folly thought, trying to ready herself, knowing she was not. She was far from achieving a balance between fluttering and flying on her senses, a creature not of this world as she knew it, and recognizing she'd become someone supposedly despicable—perverse, peculiar, queer.

They had pulled in the driveway. Tiny came out and wanted to know if he could go down the road to play with a friend. Skeeter was doing his lawns. “Might as well come in for coffee,” Martha said, steering with her head in the direction of her trailer, when they had finished unpacking Folly's groceries.

Despite the links of their talk, Folly felt the fracture that had occurred in their bond when the bottom had dropped out of the bag in
the store. She felt herself moving away from Martha to make more room for telling Mary Lou. It was as if her pores had been fully opened and now she had begun to close them down, one by one. Because she felt guilty for this, she followed Martha's nod, sat at her table, drank her coffee, caught her eye from time to time, feeling hot and cold, almost sick. She was too young for menopause, but this is what she expected the change to feel like—feelings gone flip flop, moved out to the far ends of a seesaw. At the thought of losing Martha, a vast sense of isolation came on her, a view of empty terrain on which her body could not prosper.

Martha leaned over and took Folly's hand, her eyes demanding with urgency that Folly not look away. “Hey,” she said, “I love you.” She stood and pulled Folly in the direction of the bedroom. Folly let herself be pulled but felt her resistance come along with her. She did not feel at home in her body the way she had the other times. She wanted to, needed to. She needed to tell Mary Lou, “This is right. I know this is right because I feel I've come home to my body.” The other times they'd made love in the bright light of early afternoon, her skin had felt illuminated by it. Now she went to the windows and drew the curtains tighter together, but still the room was fully light. She was not ready to tell Mary Lou or anyone. She did not know how to explain what had happened to her, even to herself, even to Martha. And she did not want to end this time of not thinking, only feeling, except already it had ended. Already the time of only feeling was a memory. Or perhaps it had never existed at all.

She fell into Martha's open arms and held her tight. She breathed her smell and let the sense of being comforted settle over her like a blanket. Martha made no moves to arouse her, only held her with her full concentration. “This is better,” she said. “I felt you were moving far away.”

“I was,” Folly said, “only, I'm not going.” She stroked Martha's back up and down. This back which had become so familiar to her by sight was now becoming familiar to the touch. The shoulder blades were blunt along their edges where Martha's large muscles attached. The bumps of her spine were more protected than Folly's, softer. The curve at the bottom of her spine was deep, and as Folly ran her hand into the hollow, she felt the light touch of Martha's belly against her own. They were much different in size, yet they fit amazingly well. Feeling the touch of their bellies together melted the last of Folly's resistence, and she found herself moving into a rhythm with Martha's body, her hand pressing the hollow.

When they lay together afterwards, still and silent, Folly felt again the sense of youth that she had not had when she was a child. She felt the strange innocence of finding love after she had long since given up belief in it. “I feel very lucky,” she whispered.