Idaho Code Page 19

  I met Sylvie outside of my abnormal psych class. She seemed neither surprised to see me nor particularly happy. She gave me the same look she had given me on Saturday when we met at Traveler’s Rest.

  “Hi,” I said doubtfully.

  She looked down at her boots. “Hi.”

  “I went to see Sarah this morning. She says she’ll call me when she’s got something.”

  “Okay.”

  She stole quick, angry glances at me from beneath half-closed eyelids, and I thought about asking her why she was mad. My experience with the same question on Saturday told me not to bother. Instead, I said, “This will be the second time Sarah’s looked up your father and Frank. She had a bunch of news clippings in a folder. Helen seems to have stolen it.”

  That got her attention. She looked up at me now, her eyes wide open.

  “The folder had my name on it. Sarah left it down at the reference desk yesterday, while Helen was working. Now, the folder’s missing.”

  “What makes you think she took it?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s nosy. Maybe she found it on the desk, saw my name, and thought it would be fun to fuck with me.” I didn’t really believe this, but it was as good a reason as any. “We had a run-in the weekend before last at my mother’s house. Helen and Granny were pamphleteering for Proposition One. She called me a dyke.”

  “That sounds like her,” Sylvie agreed. “If it’s true, it explains a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  She was beginning to thaw towards me. She looked up and gave me a genuine, friendly smile. “Like nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. You’re right, she doesn’t like you, but she doesn’t like me either. I don’t know why she hasn’t outed me to my mother. She’s certainly threatened to often enough.”

  I thought it best not to mention that she’d outed her to Sarah. “There’s a word for women like Helen, but it’s rarely used outside of a kennel.”

  “Wait,” she said, “I know that one. It’s Joan Crawford, right?”

  “Very good,” I smiled. “It’s from The Women. Have we seen all the same old movies?”

  She laughed. “Either that or we’ve taken all the same film studies courses.”

  “Look,” I stepped closer and put my hand on her arm. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I have that botany test.”

  Having managed to get this far, I decided to press my luck. “After botany?”

  “Well,” she hesitated, looking down at her boots again, “actually, I have a prior engagement. I would if I could, Bil, but I really can’t cancel this.”

  “It’s okay,” I said quickly. I knew what prior engagement meant—it meant someone who was not me. “I understand. Another time.”

  “Definitely. I could even call you tonight, if you like.”

  My reply was terse, giving away more than I had intended. “I don’t know if Sarah will be finished by then.”

  She smiled tentatively. “I could call you anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  As soon as she was around the corner, I walked across the lobby and picked up the pay phone. Tipper answered on the second ring.

  “Stop the Prop!” he cried. “But in the meantime, let’s chat.”

  “It’s me, Tipper. Can I come over?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I was thinking I’d throw myself under a train.”

  “Don’t do that, you’re the answer to my prayers. Mama’s taken the car, the Faeries are taking a nap, and I want to go shoe shopping!”

  Chapter 18

  When I pulled up to the gate, Tipper was leaning against it, wearing a crisp, white, button-down shirt. The shirt was tucked neatly into his jeans, and he was wearing a broad, black leather belt with a big silver buckle. The finishing touch to this YMCA drag was a pair of construction boots.

  “You look like Barbie’s dream date.”

  He closed his eyes and fluttered a hand over his chest. “My heart belongs to Ken. Actually, I wore this for you. This is going to be your new look.”

  “My what? Look, I thought we were going shoe shopping, which means you try on a thousand pairs, and I just sit and watch.”

  “We’ll do that, too. Nevertheless, it’s about time someone took you in hand. You’re a mess. I don’t just mean your clothes, I mean you generally. You’ve looked like death eating a cracker for over a week.”

  I sighed. “Tipper, I’m exhausted. I’m behind in every class, and . . .”

  “And you need my advice but don’t know how to ask for it. Don’t worry,” he smiled, “I don’t expect you to tell me right away. For now, just relax and drive.”

  “Fine.” I pulled out into the highway and headed for town. “Where are we going?”

  “Spokane,” he replied. “Don’t miss the exit.”

  “Spokane? But that’s two hours away!”

  “Then you’d better put your foot down because that’s where we’re going. Only farmer’s wives shop in Cowslip, and besides, you and I are going to spend some quality time, just the two of us. Close your mouth, I will brook no argument. You can have one afternoon with no Emma, no Sam, and,” he paused for effect, “none of your other little problems.”

  It was a long drive from Cowslip to Spokane, even at seventy miles an hour. The highway ran up the middle of nowhere, past a lot of grain elevators and a couple of one-horse towns. Otherwise, it was all wheat and barley fields, as far as the eye could see.

  Once we were outside of Cowslip, Tipper rolled down the window and stuck his head out, letting the wind blow through his hair.

  “Free at last, free at last! Thank God almighty!”

  I grabbed his arm and gave it a yank. “Come back inside before you’re decapitated.”

  “In that case, you’ll have to put something good on the stereo,” he said, settling back down in his seat. “I need music.”

  “I thought we were going to have quality time.”

  “We can’t do that without an appropriate soundtrack. What have you got?”

  “I don’t know. There are some cassettes in that case on the floor, down by your feet.”

  He flipped through them for several minutes, pulling out those he liked and setting them on the seat between us. And then he pulled out a cassette he didn’t like.

  “What,” he asked loudly, “is this?”

  I squinted at the cover. “It looks suspiciously like New Miserable Experience by the Gin Blossoms.”

  “Well the title fits. How did one of A. J.’s cassettes get into your truck?”

  “How do you know it’s hers?”

  “Elementary, my dear. One, I happen to know that you hate the Gin Blossoms. Two,” he waved the case in front of me, “she’s written her name on it.”

  “Get that out of my face,” I said irritably. “I can’t see to drive.”

  “You can’t see period. Once and for all, are you done with that woman or not?”

  “I am done with her.” This statement earned me a slap on the arm. With some irritation, I said, “Look, do you need an anger management class? Talk, don’t hit.”

  “I can hit you all I like, we’re practically sisters. Now, what gives with A. J.? She’d better not be the reason you want to throw yourself under a train.”

  “She’s not. That cassette’s been in here since last spring.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “It has!”

  “I know for a fact,” he said sternly, “that she was in your company quite recently.”

  “She wasn’t in my truck.” He glared at me. I sighed. “It was just that once, Tipper—the night we all went to Fiesta Jack’s. I was weakened by alcohol, as you well know.”

  “Oh no,” he shook his head. “You can’t blame this on me. I drank just as much as you did, and I successfully repelled the advances of a very determined Suzy.”

  “Oh, Suzy. He’d proposition a lamppost.”

  “That doesn’t mean
he’s easy to fight off. And like you, I’ve had a long dry spell.”

  “If I acknowledge your moral superiority, will you leave me alone?”

  “No, but thanks anyway.” He peered at me closely. “Just once?”

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake! I’d know, wouldn’t I? What is this anyway, the third degree? I thought this was going to be a day without, as you said, my little problems.”

  “It wasn’t my intention to grill you,” he relented. “It’s just that . . . well, you might as well know now as later. After you left the party last night, the Lesbian Avengers met at the Cowslip Café to plan their next action. The Faeries and I decided to intercept them. Do you know what they’re planning, by the way? A kiss-in on Union Square.”

  “I don’t care if they’re kissing asses on Union Square. What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Innuendo. They were all talking about your big outing, and A. J., always the center of attention, told them that you were her—now wait, let me get this right—I think she said that you were her primary partner.”

  “Her what?”

  “Allow me to translate. She said you were her girlfriend du jour, her main squeeze, and her all-around chief fuck buddy.”

  “Enough, I get the picture.” I tried to concentrate on the road ahead. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I asked, “Who else was there?”

  “You don’t want to know,” he confirmed.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He rolled his eyes despairingly. “The entire Merwin clan was sitting at the table next to us. A. J. flapped her lips, and Helen took dictation. And believe me that was not the first time A. J. has told that story. She’s blabbed about your recent escapade all over town. Last night, as soon as I got a chance, I dragged your ex aside and put the fear of God in her, but I’m afraid it was way too late.”

  For a moment, I gazed at him, horrified. I looked back at the road just in time to notice that I had drifted into the southbound lane. I jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, throwing Tipper against the door.

  “Don’t kill us! You might wish you were dead, but I don’t.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Goddamn that Helen, she’s everywhere.”

  “She’s a regular machine,” he agreed.

  We said nothing more for several miles. Tipper chose a tape and popped it into the stereo. It was Aimee Mann’s Whatever, one of his favorite albums.

  “Honey,” he said finally, “what were you thinking? I thought it was all over with her.”

  “I wasn’t thinking, Tipper. She was beautiful, and I was stupid. That pretty much sums up every romance I’ve ever had.”

  “If it’s any comfort,” he said, “I’ve been equally stupid myself.”

  “Tom?” He nodded. “Is it serious?”

  “I’m serious. I don’t know if he is.”

  “I see.”

  He sighed heavily. “I’ve broken rule number one in the Gay Scout’s handbook: make sure you both want the same thing.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A husband and seven children. I don’t know what he wants. Maybe I’m just another ride on the gay rodeo for him.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, “but if you need a place to get away and think, my home is your home. You can even have my bed.”

  “Promise to change the sheets?”

  “Anything for you, Tipper.”

  “You’re a peach.” Changing tone, he continued briskly, “Enough about me. Why were you going to throw yourself under a train? We’ve eliminated A. J., so it must be . . .”

  “It is,” I admitted. I paused for a moment. How could I explain without explaining everything? He was clearly waiting, so I had to try. I said, “Sometimes, it seems to be going well, and I think I’m on the right track. Then I arrange to meet her or I run into her somewhere, and she cuts me dead. I saw her today and invited her out for coffee. She said she had a prior engagement. She was just blowing me off.”

  “If you believe that, you’re an idiot,” he observed matter-of-factly. “There are two factors at work here. The first is Helen Merwin. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that she got straight on the phone last night and told her dear cousin that you are a cad. That’s the bad news. The good news is that if she didn’t care for you, she wouldn’t cut you dead. What you’ve been experiencing, you naïve fool, are jealous fits.”

  “You’re insane,” I said.

  “Nonetheless, you know that I am always right.”

  “And always modest.”

  “Who has time for modesty? I have to fix your life so I can get on with my own. Now be quiet while I continue my analysis. Do you want to know how you ended up in bed with A. J.?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Well?” he persisted.

  “Sorry, I thought that was rhetorical.”

  “It was not. First, tell me exactly what happened. I want the complete chain of events—leading up to, not during,” he clarified.

  I shrugged. How did it happen? Did I run into her by chance or by design? I couldn’t remember. “I left Fiesta Jack’s and walked in the general direction of Ruth and Naomi’s place. I paused outside of the Underground to get my bearings, and there she was.” I added, “In the right light, Tipper, she really does look like Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “So do I,” he snapped. “Bil, you don’t understand women at all.”

  “And you do?”

  “I understand her type well enough. That was a pre-emptive strike. She laid a trap, and you stuck your big feet right in it. Sleeping with you was purely an act of sabotage. She was marking out her territory, sending a signal to Sylvie and any other interested party—dibs on this one, she’s mine.”

  “What, like a dog?”

  “Not the exact word I was thinking of,” he said, “but you get the picture. A. J. wants Sylvie to think you two are an ongoing item, very much involved in the present tense. She’s done a good job of it, too.”

  Listening to Tipper was like driving past a car wreck. I didn’t want to see the dead bodies, and yet I couldn’t stop rubbernecking.

  “Look,” Tipper continued seriously, “you were entitled to a grudge fuck.”

  “That’s not . . .”

  “Will you stop interrupting me? That’s clearly what it was. I’m on your side, remember?” I had to promise to let him have his say before he’d continue. “You should have made a clean break with A. J., but I realize that’s not the lesbian way. Lesbians prefer to beat the dead horse already in their stable rather than look for a fresh pony. You need to wake up, Bil, because you’ve got a fresh pony who’s saddled up, hitched, and ready to ride.”

  “What an attractive analogy.”

  “I am perfectly serious,” he said. “A. J. is rotten to the core. She wants you for a trophy because you’d look nice hanging over her sofa. You broke up with her, and she hates that.”

  “She drove me to it!” I protested. “And you’ve just pointed out that she doesn’t give a shit about me. I’m a convenience to her, like a public toilet.”

  “Now who’s making attractive analogies? Look, don’t argue with me. If she can’t have you back, she at least wants you to suffer for having dumped her. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  We had reached Colfax, Washington, a notorious speed trap. I slowed down to twenty-five and crept along Main Street.

  “Tipper, do you really think Sylvie is interested?”

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer. We passed through Colfax without incident, so when we reached the top of the hill at the edge of town, I put my foot down.

  “You’re a seven,” he said suddenly.

  “I’m a what?”

  “A seven on the butch-femme scale. It goes from one to ten, one being maximum femme and ten being maximum butch. My mother is an eleven. You are a seven, and Sylvie is a four.”

  “What about the motorcycle?”

  “That’s why she’s a four and not a three. Now thi
s is what we’ve got to work with—you’re naturally attracted to one another. We need to play to your complementary strengths.”

  He stared at me for so long I asked if he was measuring me for drapes.

  “Shut up,” he said. “I was wrong about the suit and tie, but I’m right about cleaning you up. Crisp white shirts and lace-up oxfords; that’s what you need.”

  There was no point in arguing. I knew as much about clothes as I knew about particle physics. Besides, he was probably right. Could it hurt to retire Mr. Bubble and a few of my other more wretched T-shirts?

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m a seven, and Sylvie’s a four. What’s A. J.?”

  “Easy,” he replied. “A perfect ten.”

  “She’s not a butch!”

  “No, she’s a bitch. I’ve changed scales.”

  We started with Nordstrom’s and finished up at The Bon Marché, stopping at a hundred and fifty stores in between and leaving a trail of bemused salesgirls in our wake. I bought two button-down shirts and, at Tipper’s insistence, a pair of brown wing tips, which I wore out of the store.

  Tipper bought a pair of high-heeled pumps, which he described as “billboard slippers.” They were red and glittering with four-inch spike heels, so I didn’t need to ask what they were advertising. I did suggest that he buy a silver-tipped cane to stop himself from falling over, and he informed me in a voice too shrill for comfort that they weren’t walking-around shoes. They were staring-at-the-ceiling shoes.

  He could have gone on shopping until the stores closed. I was a lesser mortal. At half past six I said, “Tipper, I’m beat. Can we take a break for dinner? Maybe even a beer?”

  He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a friendly squeeze. “Of course, honey. You’ve been a brave little butch, and you deserve a Budweiser. I know just the place.”

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting in Jackie J’s, a les-bi-gay bar and grill downtown. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and Tipper had a Caesar salad with dressing on the side. The bar was crowded, and we had to wait well over half an hour for our food. In the meantime, people came and went. We had just started eating when I saw her. At a table in the far corner of the room, in light so dim I could barely make her out, Sylvie sat with a tall, dark-haired woman who looked familiar to me. The woman was handsome, broad-shouldered with small, well-rounded breasts. I could scarcely help noticing the latter as she was wearing a tight V-necked sweater. They were clearly together, and judging from the intensity of their conversation, she was no casual pick up. She was the prior engagement.