Authors: Cathleen Schine
"
Oui?
Still?"
"
Oui.
Still."
"You are very fine guide, Marguerite." He smiled slightly, hesitantly. "Mar-gar-et."
"Oh, yeah," Margaret said, burying her face in her hands. "A fine guide." Which way to the Vltava?
M
ARGARET STOOD
on the corner in her wrinkled silk skirt and blouse and the wrath of humiliation and misapprehension.
Where to, Virgil?
I don't know. Where do you want to go?
Gee, I don't know. I thought you knew. You're the guide.
Who said I was the guide, why aren't you the guide, why do I always have to be the guide?
It was the first truly hot day, the June sun bright and ferocious on the yellow taxis. Margaret marched forward, looking in shoe stores. Where to, where to, where to? Home was enemy territory, occupied by a stranger who thought everything was all right. Everything was not all right. It enraged her to think that even for one mistaken moment Edward thought that everything was all right. She refused to let everything be all right. It wouldn't be right if everything were all right. After all she'd done, imagine everything being all right. Only Edward could think everything was all right. What did she have to do, send him a telegram? "
EVERYTHING NOT ALL
RIGHT STOP WIFE WANTS DENTIST STOP TRIED TO SEDUCE BELGIAN BUT TOO DRUNK STOP LESBIAN STOP.
"
And she'd already left a note. At least, she'd meant to leave a note. What more did a person have to do?
Where to, where to, where to? Richard's maid's room? Narrow, yellow, grim, and mean? That maid's room? Yes, yes. That's your home now, Margaret. You and Richard can grow old together, arguing about who left the ripe, fragrant strawberries out overnight to spoil. As the clocks toll the hours, all the hours at once.
What's going on? Margaret wondered. I used to be a happy, scholarly housewife. Now I am a frustrated adulteress wandering the streets, seeking shelter in shoe stores. She sat down and tried on a pair of oxfords. Now that she was a lesbian, she supposed she would need more oxfords. A whole closetful. Of course, she already had a closetful of oxfords, so there wouldn't be much point.
She had forgotten for a while that she was a lesbian, what with all the excitement of passing out in a strange man's bed. But she thought about it now, thought of Lily as she'd last seen her, and she knew it must be true. She could recall vividly the shape of Lily's breasts through a silk blouse—large, curved, a small round nipple showing, pop, in the middle of each one. Those breasts and nipples in white silk were part of a language, a language that, like all language, said something about the world, and Margaret had heard the language and she understood. To find the meaning, understand the use. She looked, she understood the use, she understood the meaning. Maybe, yes maybe, her understanding was not always all that it might be. Martin had clearly been speaking a different language, playing a different game from the one she had been playing, checkers to her chess. But with Lily, she would be more careful. She would limit herself to seeing what was really there. Descriptions, Margaret, not explanations. Then perhaps she would see the truth of the proposition: I am a lesbian, I am Lily's lover.
Martin was not the true end of her quest. That much she had demonstrated. The path led clearly now to Lily. And she felt anew the force of the odd, giddy determination she had experienced for the last few months, the cold desire. I must know; I
will
find out. Her failure with Martin made her more avid, rather than less. I must seek, and I must have, she thought. Fuck you, you fake frog. A world of women awaits me!
She went to Richard's to shower and eat some frozen brownies she found beneath the ice cube tray. And change her clothes. What did one wear? she wondered. For an encounter such as this? This was the other side of the moon. One took a step and flew, high in the air, waiting, waiting to land in the rocky darkness.
She wore jeans, how butch, and anyway she had nothing else with her except the wrinkled skirt of the night before, a night of confusion and inebriated solecism best left rumpled, with the skirt, on the floor.
Outside, the heat had diminished slightly and there was a breeze of just below body temperature. The sun was low and the buildings glowed with pink, as if they were healthy buildings. What a beautiful afternoon, almost evening, really. A beautiful time of day. Just right for a seduction.
Margaret took the bus across town, into the setting sun. She squinted and she felt warm, in spite of the air-conditioning. The sun was low but everywhere, poking its nose in where it didn't belong. Go away, this is a bus, a city bus. Go to Kansas. Or Abu Dhabi. Margaret put her arm over her eyes.
Uncomfortable in the sunlight, hung over, and nervous about Lily, she was breathing in a shallow, unsatisfying way and tried to catch her breath. Was it necessary, she wondered, to do what she was about to do? Simply because she thought Lily was attractive? Her collie had been a beautiful collie, but she had never tried to kiss it on the lips.
Margaret, Lily would say, you're in denial.
You lived in a dream with Edward, Margaret told herself, allowing him to look at you with his icy blue eyes and make you think that the reflection you saw there was really you. Now you can't look in his eyes, there is no reflection to bask in. You yourself must observe and let others bask in what they see in your eyes. Maybe you should teach more, stand in front of a room and look out at eyes waiting for you to speak, wanting something from you, demanding that you guide them, fill them with knowledge, make them whole.
She remembered going to a talk of Edward's, just after they'd met. She remembered how he walked to the front of the room, how he stood absolutely still for a fraction of a second, how his stillness caught the attention and the imagination of the entire roomful of young men and women, how they stared at him, how he seemed to grow as they stared, how he suddenly, absurdly, held out his arms.
He stood in front of his audience with his arms out as if he were greeting the dawn, as if a crowd were cheering him, as if Margaret were running toward him to be embraced, which she longed to do. Her heart had beat faster; her heart had literally beat faster then.
"Goood mooorning," he had bellowed in his richest accent. And he had started to speak and never stopped for the next two hours as Margaret watched, tense and overwhelmed.
I observed then, she thought. I observed every nuance of every sweep of his arm. I observed him and the air around him, the air he breathed.
Well, those days are over. Not a student anymore. Thank God and Madame de Montigny, not a teacher either, but not a student enthralled in a class. Now my husband has other students and I must make my own classes. Lily will be my class. I will study Lily.
Lily's buzzer was broken as usual, the front door unlocked, and Margaret hurried up the flight of dark stairs. Lily opened her door, and Margaret forgot Edward, forgot her reservations. Lily's eyes looked bigger and darker. The scent of roses, faint and uncertain, was on Lily's cheek when Margaret kissed it, a hello kiss, familiar, but not the same now. Lily's cheek was soft, softer than a man's, softer even than a boy's, Margaret thought. As soft as a woman's cheek, genius.
Lily's lips touched her cheek lightly. "Margaret, why didn't you call?"
The last time I saw you, Margaret thought, I said to myself, I am walking toward Lily and I am going to kiss her on the lips. Everything dissolved but that one thought: I am walking toward Lily and I am going to kiss her on the lips. Then I didn't. But now I will.
Lily closed the door and began to say something but stopped. Perhaps she stopped because Margaret put her hand on Lily's waist. Margaret felt the curve of it and found it even more difficult to breathe. She put her other hand on Lily's waist.
"Margaret?" Lily whispered in her tart whisper through her tart lips, a whisper and lips Margaret had always found so amusing in their contrast to what Lily said. But now they didn't seem amusing at all. They didn't seem to be in contrast to anything at all. They seemed like red lips and a soft, questioning whisper.
"Margaret?" Lily whispered again, almost alarmed, almost as alarmed as I am, Margaret thought.
Margaret said, "I, um, well..."
She ran her hand up Lily's back, moving closer to her, moving very close to her, thinking, No wonder men like women, no wonder men like to touch women. Lily was wearing a bathrobe. She realized that for the first time now, a vintage satin bathrobe, beneath which she felt Lily, her hands felt Lily. One hand caught in the tie. The robe was opening in the front revealing one of Lily's round, large breasts.
Yikes, Margaret thought.
"Margaret, hold on—"
Hold on? Hold on to what? The room looked funny, dim and far away. Her face was pressed against Lily's short black hair. She could feel a woman's body against hers, a naked female breast, a crushed satin bathrobe, a curved waist beneath her hands, a smooth, rose-scented neck beneath her lips, soft lips beneath her own lips.
"Margaret, for Christ sake, take it easy—"
Take it easy?
Lily stepped back and gently pushed Margaret away.
"Look, Margaret, I mean I never expected this, I didn't know you, well ... but I'm flattered, sort of, but, what are you"—she bit her lip, her pretty lip—"doing? Exactly?"
Exactly? Margaret thought. Exactly, I am holding on to a half-naked woman's gently curved waist. Exactly!
"Lily?" said a voice.
Whose voice is that? Margaret wondered. It's not Lily's voice. It's not my voice, although it's somehow almost my voice. It's as familiar as my voice. It's a man's voice. It's Edward's voice, actually.
Margaret let go of Lily's waist.
"Lily, I need a towel," said the voice.
The voice needed a towel. Edward's voice needed a towel. Why would Edward's voice be in Lily's apartment and in need of a towel? Well, it wouldn't unless it was wet. Why would Edward's voice be wet? Well, it wouldn't unless it was taking a shower. In Lily's apartment.
"Edward?" Margaret whispered. She looked at Lily, who turned away, tying her robe around her tighter.
"
Edward?
" Margaret said again.
"But, Margaret..." Lily said.
Margaret stared at her. She sensed that her mouth was open, that she ought to close it.
"Lily, how could you do this to me?" she said instead.
"But—"
"You hung around flirting with me to get to my husband?"
But even as she said it, Margaret knew it was a meaningless accusation. Lily flirted with everyone, male or female. She smiled and turned her head cunningly, just so, to show her dimples. She didn't have dimples, but it didn't matter. Her life was a flirtation, from morning till dark. At breakfast, the blushing cereal suspected, hoped, but never knew. At bedtime, its heart pounding, her pillow lowered its eyes, speechless and confused.
"With you? Margaret," Lily was saying, "you're
married.
"
"So is Edward," Margaret said. "To
me
" She was enraged. She had fallen for the wiles of a girl, and they weren't even wiles! "You've betrayed me and ... and
all
women."
"Margaret, don't be an ass. Nothing happened."
"Oh, please."
Lily put a hand through her hair and sighed. "Nothing happened, Margaret, okay? Maybe it should have," she added, almost to herself.
Tristesse
becomes her, Margaret thought with a mixture of admiration, sympathy, and disgust. As does every other emotion.
Lily twisted the ties of her bathrobe. "Maybe," she said, then squared her shoulders and looked Margaret in the eyes. "Anyway, what do you care if something
did
happen? You told me you were finished with Edward."
"For good reason, as it turns out. And I didn't mean it." Margaret leaned against a chest of drawers painted with yellow birds caught in twisted blue vines. She put her head in her arms. Finished with him? Finished was right. Finished,
finito, fini.
"But I mean it now."
"It was nothing, Margaret. Nothing."
Nothing, Margaret repeated dully to herself. But Lily's words seemed hardly to matter, a traffic report playing on the radio on a day when she was staying home. Observe, Margaret. Observe the roaring in your ears. This is because the blood has rushed there. She lifted her head. The room looks strangely distant, as if you weren't in it. This is because you wish you weren't in it. You shouldn't be in it. Edward shouldn't be in it.
"I'll have to be satisfied with a flannel, I suppose," said the voice from the other room, which she did hear, with terrible clarity. "Or, better yet, evaporation. Quite pleasant, if somewhat immodest..."
Edward walked into the room with his sunken chest, her sunken chest, wet above his running shorts.
"Margaret!" he said, walking toward her quickly, his arms out. "My poor Margaret. Are you feeling better, darling?"
"No."
"No?" He bent down to kiss her.
Was this possible? And to think she had once loved him, had once watched him teach and caught her breath, had once, only moments ago, remembered watching him teach, remembered catching her breath, and, remembering, had caught her breath again.
She pulled away from him. "You two-timing slime Brit creep," she said.
"You did have a bad night."
"Yes," Margaret said. "Yours was obviously a lot more eventful."
"Margaret, you're being ridiculous," Lily said.
"Look, Margaret, darling Margaret, wife of my bosom, I'm sorry you've got a hangover, but I see no reason to take it out on me."
"You don't?"
"Not really."
"Then you're stupid. Isn't he, Lily? Lily sees lots of reasons for me to take it out on you, don't you, Lily?"
"Oh, Margaret," Lily said.
"Margaret, let's not quarrel in front of your friend."
"
My
friend?" she laughed, a snorting sort of laugh.
"Sorry. Our friend."
"Sorry. Your friend."
"
My
friend?"
"Look, I don't care whose fucking friend you're fucking fucking."