Face of apollo, p.25
Dirty Girls on Top, page 25
I find the town house where tonight’s potluck is being held. It is a lovely red brick house I have passed many times on walks around the neighborhood. I have often admired the geraniums in the pots on the steps in the warmer months, like now, and the tasteful holiday decorations in the windows in the winter. I have thought, upon passing this home, that the people who lived there must be very organized and responsible, and so I am surprised now to learn that the people who live here are actually a single parent named Margo and her children. I ring the bell, and wait.
Margo answers the door, and I realize I have seen this beautiful woman around the neighborhood. She smiles in recognition of me, too, and we have a brief and slightly awkward conversation during which we realize that we are neighbors with something important in common. I am surprised to hear she, too, has a Spanish accent in her English. She tells me she used to watch me on the news, and apologizes for never having stopped to introduce herself, explaining that she is from Paraguay, and that people there are friendlier than they are here.
“I guess I’ve become more of a Bostonian than I realized,” she says, and then she invites me in. “Forgive me.”
“I know what you mean about unfriendliness here,” I say in Spanish, relieved to have a Latina who is not a colleague or a college friend to speak to.
Margo’s home is tastefully decorated in a French Country style that does not dissolve, as so many do, into the kitschy, and I wonder what she does for a living. She certainly seems to have a lot of money.
She leads me to the kitchen, which is downstairs one level and opens onto a bright and cheerful family room done in pale blues and yellows. The sofas are stained with food and who knows what else, but otherwise the room is very tidy, which comforts me. People with children should not have spotless homes, but they should be clean.
Eight other single parents are here, six of them women and two of them men. The room smells of tomato sauce, steaming pasta, and baked goods, and everywhere you look there are children, of all ages. Two teens sit at the kitchen table taking turns with a handheld video game. Older toddlers play with wooden blocks on the floor of the family room area. Music plays from a stereo, classical guitar.
Margo takes my hand in hers and leads me around the room, introducing me to the other parents. One of the fathers gives me a testosterone-soaked look I recognize as romantic interest. Little does he know. I smile as politely—and coldly—as I can, anticipating at some point we will have the inevitable conversation.
Oh, how much easier life would be if I could will myself to be straight. Just as Lauren wishes she could will herself to be gay. I have tried it, in the past, tried to date men and even on several occasions attempted to sleep with them. But those bodies of theirs, with the hair and the hanging, protruding bits, did nothing for me. Nothing whatsoever.
After the last two other guests have arrived, the two hired babysitters take over care of the children in the family room and Margo leads the grown-ups to the formal dining room, which is surprisingly large. Gordon is still sleeping, and I reluctantly leave him in a playpen in the family room, with instructions for the babysitters to come find me the second he wakes up. They are patient with me and my nervousness to leave his side, and clearly competent.
The walls of the dining room are painted a dark shade of red, and the large, solid walnut table easily accommodates all twelve of us. We take our places with our plates of food and our plastic cups of wine. It feels so very good to be in the company of other adults, and to be rid of the weight of Selwyn’s misery, I almost want to sing.
“Everyone, we have a new member with us this evening, Elizabeth Cruz,” says Margo as she stands at the head of the shiny, solid table. She is a regal, Spanish-looking woman, with something of a younger Meryl Streep to her. She is about five eight, with a chin-length bob that is dark brown streaked with silver. She wears an outfit similar to mine, though somewhat more classically feminine: jeans with loafers, a white oxford shirt with a thick pale orange sweater made of soft wool. The pale, warm hue of the sweater reminds me of Creamsicles, those orange-flavored popsicles we used to eat during the summer in the Bay Area. My mouth waters.
Margo has a beautiful amber necklace with large, sparkling stones, and matching earrings, an assortment of jangling bracelets stacked at the wrists, and rings with large gems crawling up her delicate fingers. None of the jewels make her look overly showy, however. She is the sort of fit, middle-aged elegant woman I have always admired from afar, but never approached because I didn’t feel refined enough. You might find her photo under the word “socialite” in the dictionary. She is very handsome, the sort of woman I could imagine holding court at a museum fund-raiser or knowing how to spot a fake at the many antique shops in the neighborhood.
I think Sara would like Margo because they each remind me of the other in some intangible, unobvious way, and I wonder if it would be possible to introduce new friends into our little circle. Probably not. Most of the sucias seem to have their two sets of friends—us, and then the friends they have collected in the years since we met.
One does not collect such a high caliber of friends, generally, as one ages, as we did in college. Friends in adulthood, at least in the United States and Boston in particular, seem to come and go as readily as do the people who change jobs every year or two and move on. Everyone in the professional world here always seems to be moving on with the idea of moving up, and friendships appear as disposable and replaceable as apartment leases.
Margo goes on to say, “I’d appreciate it if we could start tonight’s meeting by just going around the table and reintroducing ourselves to Elizabeth, but this time tell her a little bit about yourself, how you got here.”
“Oh, God,” moans the man who made eyes at me earlier. He is very average, with a plain face and plain hair, an unspectacular shirt and nondescript pants. Like too many men, he is louder than he ought to be. “Shit, Margo! Do we have to expose our wounds again?”
“Gary,” says Margo, with a scolding type of laugh. “You don’t have to go into all the gory details, but as you might recall, it’s helpful when you’re just starting this process, or this journey of single parenthood, to hear tales of others who’ve been there, done that, who have survived.” She claps her hands together and looks around the table. “So, who wants to start?”
Of course, Gary volunteers. Not to sound like Selwyn, but I sometimes wish men wouldn’t invade these sorts of groups. They always seem to want to take over every group they participate in, and far too many women allow them to. Men seem to think everything they have to say is more important than what a woman might have to say, and I find the way in which most women simply let them take over to be incredibly frustrating. Usually, though I am not keen to generalize, the women who allow them to take over tend to be straight. I pity straight women.
Gary tells a story of a cheating wife “with the most incredible body,” who ran off with the UPS man. I try not to laugh, hold the napkin over my mouth, and pretend to choke on a bit of potato salad. It’s almost comical. I mean, I feel terrible for him, but there is something almost unbelievable about a wife leaving her husband—an attorney, no less, for, he assures me, a very prestigious firm—for the well-hung delivery man. I am not certain the UPS guy was well-hung, but I imagine he was because it makes the story all that much more predictable and maudlin. When it was discovered that his wife also had drinking and drug problems, the courts awarded Gary full custody of their two young children.
“But don’t call me Mister Mom,” he says, leaning back with his average hands planted behind his oval head. “I am one hundred percent Mister Dad, understand?” I fight the urge to roll my eyes and tell him to get over himself. Men can come across as so pompous, and I don’t think most of them realize how full of themselves they are.
Once Gary finishes his tale of woe, the others begin. There are stories of infidelity, of growing quietly apart, of new loves found and the old one left behind after much soul-searching and misery. There is one woman whose husband was killed overseas in one of the many wars this country seems to be waging for no discernible reason; he was a military doctor killed in the line of duty when his field hospital was blown up.
Finally, the storytelling comes around to Margo. She stands and smooths her Creamsicle sweater out, takes a deep breath that appears to be calming and thoughtful and therefore moves me.
“Well,” she says, looking us all in the eye, and smiling specifically at me in a shared-secret sort of way I don’t understand.
“Where do I begin? I’m Margo de la Puente. I own an art gallery on Newbury Street. We specialize in Latin American paintings. I used to be a painter, and then I realized there was more money in selling other people’s paintings. Now and then I manage to sell one of my own, too. Let’s see, what else? I was born and raised in Asunción, Paraguay. I came here to go to the Massachusetts Institute of Art, and never left. I love this country, what can I say? I have a degree from there in painting, and a degree from Lesley College in accounting that I use mostly to make sure my business doesn’t go in the toilet, and I’m pleased to report that in fifteen years of operation we have consistently been in the black.
“I’m forty-two years old, and I’ve got two children—Matt is from my first marriage. He’s thirteen going on thirty and thinks he’s God’s gift to women now that he’s shaving. You might have seen him out there with the video games.” She stops to roll her eyes. “If I could get him to spend as much time on his homework as he spends on those damn games, we’d be in good shape.” She smiles, and we chuckle with her. “He’s a bright kid, but he doesn’t direct the energy where he should. I guess you could say he takes after his dad that way.” She rolls her eyes in memory of her ex-husband, and I feel the familiar pit open in my gut as I realize she is straight. I hadn’t meant to find her attractive, but you can’t control your heart or instincts. You like whom you like, whether you want to or not.
Margo seems to shake herself out of her reverie, and continues, “Enough of that. My other child is Daniela, who is two.”
“That’s a big age difference,” I say. I hadn’t meant to speak, but it just happened.
“Tell me about it,” says Margo. She goes on to say that her second marriage ended when “Charlie, her other parent, found new love with one of her younger students.”
Her? Did she just say her? I look at Margo and she is making very direct and meaningful eye contact with me, as if she wants me to be clear about the fact that her second marriage was to a woman.
“Charlie teaches physics at MIT,” she explains. “And I guess she had a graduate student who was not nearly as much of a genius as Charlie was and could therefore worship her properly, as I’d failed to, I suppose. My mistake there was thinking that we were equals, in spite of my lack of a Ph.D. or understanding of string theory. I hear they’re very happy together.” She pauses for a moment, and laughs to herself. “The funny part is that this graduate student? It’s a man.”
Around the table the other parents look at their plates, or shift in their seats. They’ve heard the story before, and do their best to be at peace with it. I’m guessing that statistically it is possible that at least one of these people is a homophobe. Yes, even in liberal Boston, even in liberal Beacon Hill, you have people who think being homosexual is wrong, or a choice.
“So, basically, I left a man for her, and she left me for a man. It’s been a year and a half, and me and the kids, we’re getting by okay.”
“How long were you together?” I ask, stunned at the similarities between our lives—both from South America, both formerly with women professors.
“That’s the thing. We were together eleven years. So she basically raised Matt. She still visits him, but it’s been really hard on him, as you can imagine. He’s lost two parents. Which is why I don’t make it a habit to date, or get involved with anyone. I want to wait until the kids are grown to try that again.”
“Sixteen years, Margo?” asks Gary. “You sure you got that kind of time, sugar?” Sugar?
She blinks at him with a strained smile, and I get the sense that I’m not the only one here who finds him tedious. “I think I’ll manage,” she tells him, coldly enough to cut off his bombastic commentary.
I smile to myself, and then I smile at Margo. I know she doesn’t have any intention to date, and to be honest, neither do I. Not this soon. Not after Lauren, and Selwyn. I need to take some time to heal. But I have to wonder what the odds are that there is a beautiful, elegant, artistic Latin American lesbian with children of her own living mere blocks from me, going through something so similar.
Margo smiles at me, and says, “Your turn, Elizabeth.” She sits back down.
I push back from the table, stand up, and tell them my narrative. Each time I look at Margo, she seems to blush and look away, her eyes landing instead on her plate. But with each look away, and with each new chapter of my story, her secretive smile grows more and more pronounced.
“I have never raised a child,” I tell them in conclusion. “But I love it so far, and I’ve committed myself to doing the best job I can. I know it won’t be easy to do it alone, but I know it won’t be impossible, either.”
With that, I sit back down.
“You aren’t doing this alone,” Margo tells me as we all resume eating. “Remember, you have us now. And we’re more than just a once-a-week group. When one of us gets sick, we know we can call on each other to help us, whether it’s with childcare, last minute or whatever, or with help preparing meals.”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “It’s amazing, actually.”
“Just know we’re here for you, and we all live in the area. Anything you need, you call us.”
I look directly into Margo’s eyes, and at that moment I hear the recognizable wail of Gordon waking up in unfamiliar surroundings.
“Oh!” I say, setting my fork down and standing quickly. “That would be my baby boy. If you’ll excuse me.”
They all nod or tell me not to worry. They understand. I love this group already. I feel like I’m finally among family, as if I’ve found a warm community in the heart of this cold culture. Maybe I wouldn’t have to move back to Latin America to find what I’m looking for. Maybe I just have to get out more. This is one of the best decisions I’ve made in recent years, to attend this group. It’s like Jesus says, you will only receive help once you admit that you need it.
I brush past Margo on my way toward my baby, and feel her reach out to touch my hand with hers. I pause and look down at her. She smiles up at me with an intense, knowing look in her large, beautiful brown eyes.
“Anything at all,” she says softly. “You let me know. We’re neighbors, after all. That means something where we’re from.”
Though I had not come here anticipating the closing of the pit in my belly, a start to the healing of the wound Selwyn and Lauren both left in the center of my being, it occurs. A knitting as the open sides find one another again, a fluttering up of a million butterflies as that old feeling returns, the one I thought I might never experience again. It has been so long since I felt it I am not sure at first what to call it. And then, as I squeeze her hand and release it to answer the call of my child, I recall.
This incredible feeling has a name: hope.
usnavys
My Favorite Outfit
Okay, so you know I don’t get philosophical and psychological and whatnot all that much when the topic is sex, right? Me? I’m more like one of those women who just say “bring it on, baby,” and the more the better.
But I got me some friends, right? One of them in particular comes to mind, with some curly red hair and a negative attitude, but I won’t name her here because that wouldn’t be nice. Anyway, m’ija, she thinks she looks fat and ugly all the time, and she’s always looking in windows when we walk by a store on the street, and there’s this big old frown on her face like she just looked in on an autopsy video or something.
No surprise, m’ija, that this friend has issues with men and sex, okay? Now, I don’t know for sure that her sex life is bad, but I do know she has her some better sex with evil men who don’t know her when the lights are out. This is the biggest problem I see for us women in the bedroom. If we don’t love our bodies with the lights on, no one else will, either.
Take me, for example. I am ample and proud, and I don’t let an extra curve here or there get in the way of me getting my groove on, okay? I don’t hide in the dark, either. They say the average woman is bombarded from the minute she gets up to the second she goes to sleep with images of skinny women in this country, nena, and I happen to think most of us are plenty messed up in the head as a result. You gotta have some psychological armor up to get past all that starving Nicole Richie nonsense, okay? That’s what I’m saying. What kind of world is it when good women like my redheaded friend are letting Lionel Richie’s daughter dictate their sex life? No, no, no.
So here’s what I want you to do for me. Listen good. Take off all your clothes, even your panties and your bra. Right now–unless you’re reading this at work, in which case I recommend you wait until you get your ass home, and unless you’re on your period, in which case I say wait you a week before you do this exercise. Now, walk around all buck naked like that. Don’t do anything crazy, like jump up and down in front of an open window. Close them shades, okay, and then just live like you always do, get you a snack, watch you some TV, all nude and beautiful as the day you were born.
Next, get yourself to a mirror and just look at you standing there, looking back at yourself. Tell yourself you are beautiful and sexy. Say it loud and proud, girl. I don’t care how big or small or whatnot and whatever you are-look at your body and say it over and over: I am beautiful the way I am and perfect the way God made me. If you ain’t feeling it, do it again. Repeat until it feels real-fake it till you make it, girlfriend.
