You first, p.21
You First, page 21
“Your landlady who recommended me,” C.C. says, her eyes bright with tears. “What’s her name?”
I tell her what she already knows: “Lynette Weems.”
then
C.C. followed the young woman in the lavender pantsuit from room to room, snapping mental Polaroids of her thrilling new single-girl life in this cute little dollhouse of a duplex. Lynette needed a renter and C.C.’s Level-B father, swelling with pride in his daughter’s new job, had slipped her extra money for room and board. He’d wanted her to find a roommate like a proper young lady but it was 1979 and she was twenty-four years old, and after a lifetime under a small roof with five noisy siblings, she craved a space of her own.
“This place is so neat,” she babbled. “I love the bookshelves, and the swivel chairs, and I’ve been wanting a pendant lamp for years now, my mom’s friend Mary Anne has one and it always…”
Lynette stood in the center of the living room, blinking at her. C.C. felt herself redden. She was always a fool around a pretty girl, mostly because she had never been able to confess her true feelings to one of them.
“The paint job is fresh,” Lynette pointed out. “And the furniture is nearly new, barely used.”
“Who lived here before? Looks like someone with good taste.”
“My parents.”
“Ohh.” A playful smile crossed C.C.’s lips. “About time you kicked them out of the nest, huh?”
“They passed away. Two years ago.”
C.C. wished she could fly. She would launch herself out the open window and vanish into the cloudy June sky.
“Oh my god,” she said. “I’m sorry. I am so, so—”
“Don’t be.” Lynette looked out the window, arms crossed tight across her chest. “They were fine people. Good parents. They provided well for my sister and me. That’s more than most people get in this world.”
“I agree. For sure,” said C.C., making a note to phone her own parents that night.
“They remodeled this place two months before the accident. Didn’t even get to enjoy it.”
“Oh. Oh wow, that’s so—”
“Anyway, they left us this whole house. My sister and her boyfriend lived in this half for a while, but then they got married and moved to Chicago. It’s too quiet here now, especially at night. And I could use the money.” Lynette spoke methodically, brushing invisible dust from the coffee table with one hand. “I’m asking any renters to keep the furniture nice, though. I don’t have the space for it at my place, but to be honest I’m…ah…” Her gaze traveled the room, coming to rest on the chair C.C. stood behind.
“Not ready to get rid of it?” C.C. said gently.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“It’s okay. I love it all. I’ll take care of it.” C.C. touched the gold velvet swivel chair as if it were a newborn kitten. “I’m an excellent cleaner. I’ve been cleaning things since I was four years old. I know five different ways to get stains out of sofas. Not that I’ll stain your sofa! You can trust me.”
“So that means you’d…like to take the place?” Lynette seemed shy all of a sudden, biting on a grin and pivoting the toe of her sandal in the carpet.
“I would,” said C.C. “If that’s all right.”
“That would be fine,” Lynette said. “Just fine.”
“I do have one confession, though.”
Lynette looked up, studied her face. “Yes?”
I think you’re beautiful and smart and I love the way you talk, like a tour guide at an art museum.
“I’m—a super.” C.C. pushed back the sleeve of her polyester blouse. “A Level-B animal talker. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Are you kidding me? You think I’d discriminate?”
“I—”
C.C. was about to be mortified again, but then she saw Lynette’s raised eyebrow, her small smile that burst into a bigger one. Lynette offered her a hand—the same hand that would soon brush C.C.’s hair from her paint-spattered face as they redid the guest room bookcase in her favorite shade of green.
“You’ve got a deal, Super C.C.” Their hands felt right together, like settling into an easy chair after a long hard day. “Welcome home.”
now
C.C. finishes the story of how they met, pressing tears from her eyes with a crumpled paper napkin. We’re back in her kitchen now, a plate of Fig Newtons between us as we look through an album of round-cornered photos. Young C.C. and Young Lynette smile up at me from behind crackly sheets of protective plastic, lounging on the couch and kissing under mistletoe in the ghostly 1970s version of our house. There is an endless list of questions I want to ask Lynette, from how could you give this girl up? to what’s with the crocheted poncho?
“Do you recognize the place?” says C.C. “Or has it changed too much?”
“Some things survived,” I assure her. “She made sure of that.”
I study a photo someone took in the deer room: C.C. sitting in the green velvet chair in a sundress, Lynette all smiles and purple bellbottoms, perched on the arm of the chair and leaning close to her. It’s strange and sweet and sad, seeing another couple in love in our house. They probably thought that place would never stop being theirs.
“Tell me more. About your time together,” I say. “Did you always know Summerhill was temporary?”
“I sensed it would be, yes. I knew the job was a rung on a ladder, so I’d thought of the town as a pit stop.” She refills her teacup from the pink pig-shaped kettle between us. “It was convenient, a fifteen-minute drive from my job. Cheap and charming, though not immune to small-town narrowness.”
“It’s a bit better now,” I say. “I think.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“It must have been hard.” I break a Newton in half, then in quarters. “Back then…being an interracial couple, and queer too.”
She smiles at queer. “I’m glad that’s not a dirty word anymore.” Eleanor leaps into her lap, and C.C. scritches her head. “It was hard, but not entirely because of those things. If it had been, we might have survived. We were tough old birds, even then.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, we both had ambitions. We were going to change our worlds. And we made a promise that we’d never stand in each other’s way.” Eleanor rubs her cheek against C.C.’s cat sweatshirt in sympathy. “In the end, I wanted to travel. Meet animals all over the world, understand them better, work on ways for talkers to expand their powers. She wanted to stay local so she could change her town—she loved Summerhill, always believed in its potential. And children—she wanted at least one, and I never did.” She pulls in a breath, as if she’s gathering courage. “Did she…?”
“Yes. She did.” I hadn’t wanted to bring Lynette’s daughter up, in case it made C.C. sad. I grab my phone and find a photo of Miranda from the shower, beaming in the antique yellow rocking chair her mother had given her as a gift. “That’s her daughter, Miranda. And Randi’s husband Marcus. They’re having a baby.”
“Admired Miranda, worth what’s dearest to the world,” C.C. murmurs, and I recognize the quote from The Tempest. “She’s beautiful.”
“She’s a social worker.”
“Of course she is.” C.C. smiles, blinking hard. “You said Lynnie wasn’t with someone now. Did she ever marry?”
I shake my head. “Miranda’s bio dad is a friend of hers. George something?”
“George Bowen?”
“Tall black guy, glasses, kind of…sticky-out ears?”
She sighs happily, studying Miranda’s picture again. “He was a good friend to both of us. A pal of hers from her high school days. We used to hang out at the old Over-Easy Diner—is that still there?”
“No, sorry. A lot’s changed on Main Street.”
“I figured.” C.C. bites her lip and passes my phone back to me. “So she stayed single, then?”
“She’s had a few…girlfriends, I guess.” The word “girlfriend” sounds too young and frilly for Lynette. “But no one serious for years now, I don’t think. She’s busy. She’s working on her third book and she teaches and gardens and co-chairs the Summerhill Pride committee and she’s on the board of…”
C.C. holds a hand up. I feel bad. I’ve overloaded her with the fullness of Lynette’s life, made her picture all the vibrant years they could have had together.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She gets up slowly and paces the kitchen’s checkerboard floor, Eleanor slinking along beside her. When she speaks, it’s like she’s talking to herself.
“I wish…I wish we could’ve lived two parallel lives together. One with all the things she wanted. One with all the things I wanted. But to have those things…? We had to let each other go. We had to.”
“It’s too hard to have both, I guess.”
“For some people, yes. Lynnie was so focused, so independent. And I’d just left my parents’ house—suffocating place that it was—and I was on my way to being independent myself, and I was so afraid I’d lose myself in her if I stayed. Compromise my dreams. Grow to resent her, quietly.” Her face clouds. “And vice versa. I was…clearly that danger for her, too.”
I blink down at my Fig Newton pieces. God, I hate Fig Newtons. “Not many people can think that way. Be so logical about it.”
“Yeah. Well. I had hoped it wouldn’t take so long to circle back to each other. But then years went by, and more years, and now…” She thunks back down at the kitchen table. Slowly, she rubs her forehead with her left hand, which is adorned with three rings shaped like animal paws. “I don’t understand…Why didn’t she didn’t tell you about me before you came? Explain who we were to each other?”
“I’m not sure. Emotional stuff embarrasses her.”
She snorts. “Tell me about it.”
“She did give me a notecard.”
C.C. looks up. “She did?”
“It’s in the envelope. With your check.” I clear my throat. “I don’t know what it says, but I can—”
“No, don’t. I don’t want to read it. Not yet.”
C.C. stirs her already-stirred tea. I toy with a Newton chunk, listening to the clank of her spoon against the mug. The penguin clock honks, announcing noon.
“Do you have regrets?” I say quietly.
She sets the spoon on her saucer. She turns a page of the photo album. Then another.
“I don’t regret living the life I wanted, no. And I’ve had love in my life. Many loves,” she clarifies, with an impish half-grin. “But I’ve always wondered. And I’ve never forgotten. Never.”
My eyes fill up. I can’t help it.
“Is this touching a nerve for you?” she asks. “It’s okay if it is. I’d kind of like to stop talking about me.”
No, I tell myself. Do not open this box. Stay mysterious and safe. Fill your mouth with Newtons instead of true confessions.
She rests her hand on my hand, where the blue star is fading.
And goddammit, I tell her everything.
I tell her about Jay and our job interviews. I tell her about Lake Wallingdare, and the Riverside flood, and the medal I somehow haven’t seen since the morning after he brought it home. I tell her about Jay’s private lessons and his pride in his work and my love for him and my love for Summerhill in all its shabby glory, and she listens with the poignant look of a bystander watching history repeat.
When I’m done, Eleanor rubs against my leg. I give her a pat but she ducks away, like don’t press your luck.
“Obviously you should not go to this interview,” says C.C.
“Obviously.”
“And clearly you shouldn’t hold him back from his.”
“Clearly not.”
“So the question is: if he gets the job, what life do you choose?”
I glance over at her, silently pleading for advice.
“Well, don’t look at me. I had my answers, not yours.” She turns the last page of the album, sweeps her fingertips over a blurry old photo of a piebald deer with one black ear. “But I can tell you one thing not to do.”
then
C.C. and Lynette walked a well-worn trail in the woods behind Wishpenny Park, their deer companion trudging between them like a worried child.
The doe had first wandered up to C.C. on an autumn afternoon nine months before, seconds after she and Lynette had kissed over a shared baggie of trail mix. They’d named her Stevie after Nicks and Wonder, the dueling soundtracks on their record players and the artists they most agreed on. They visited Stevie at least three times a week, and she was even immortalized on their walls. C.C. hadn’t been thinking of wallpaper in her reading room, but when Lynette found a special print on sale—white deer romping on forest green—neither of them could resist the tribute to their favorite chatterbox doe.
Most days when they walked in the woods there was a happy stream of chitchat, C.C. translating Stevie’s panoply of soft grunts and bleats for Lynette. But today was different. C.C. had accepted an invitation from an Australian collective of animal talkers, and she was set to leave for an expedition at the end of August. Lynette would stay behind in Summerhill, continuing her work at the junior college as Professor Runyon’s research assistant and nurturing her grassroots activist group, SYFE (Summerhill Youth for Equality). The decision had been made two days before, and talk had been small since then.
“Cold day for July,” said Lynette.
“Yes,” said C.C. “But at least the rain’s stopped.”
“That it has.”
Lynette kicked at a clump of moss with her sneaker. C.C. toyed with the flat gold heart pendant Lynette had given her for her birthday.
Talk to her! Stevie grunted. Talk to each other!
“What’s she saying?” Lynette asked.
C.C. looked at her shuffling feet, sheathed in green canvas sandals that were impractical for walking in the wet summer woods. “I’m not really sure,” she said. “I’m having a hard time translating today.”
“Hm,” said Lynette.
C.C. wanted to take her by the shoulders and unleash floods of truth. She wanted to say, this is a pattern. You never dealt with your parents’ death and now you’re not dealing with me. You shut everything inside forever and hope it fades away. But she wasn’t a fantastic truth-teller either, so she hooked her pinkie around Lynette’s and the two of them kept walking.
They came to a little clearing in the woods. Light filtered through the leaves and painted a lacy pattern on their hair and jeans and thin summer blouses. Stevie snuffled approvingly. It was a place to get lost, to kiss and giggle into each other’s necks and forget about the future.
“I think we should break up now,” Lynette announced.
“What?” C.C.’s heart dropped.
“It’s the most logical option. There’s no sense in prolonging this when we know it’s going to end. It’ll just make things more difficult six weeks from now.”
“But I live right next door.”
“I know.” Lynette’s arm curled tightly around a slim oak tree, as if she’d suddenly gone boneless and needed it to stand. “But we can work out a schedule. So we don’t run into each other. It makes sense, right?”
Tell her no! Stevie told C.C. Tell her to hell with logic. Tell her every minute together matters, starting now.
“Okay,” said C.C. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want and what’s right are two different things.” Lynette left her tree and came closer to C.C., keeping her hands in her pockets. “We have our own separate lives to live. If we don’t do this now, we’ll get knotted up with each other and then we’ll never leave. Or—you’ll never leave, at least.”
C.C. stood in the middle of the clearing and thought about all the things she still wanted to do with Lynette. She wanted to march with her, and own a dog with her, and make Julia Child’s apple crepes with her, and see the third Star Wars film with her whenever it came out. But what if Lynette was right? What if they got knotted up with each other, and she never chatted with a death adder in Australia, or communed with capuchins in Paraguay, or decoded the baby-cries of a giant salamander in a Chinese mountain stream?
She nodded. It was all she could bring herself to do. Lynette held out a hand for her to shake, but no, that was wrong, and they both knew it. C.C. pulled Lynette close one last time and they held each other in silence, swaying gently in a scatter of midsummer sun. Stevie snorted at them and stalked away though the trees.
“See you in a few years, maybe,” Lynette said, allowing herself one sniffle. “After we both change the world.”
now
I have changed.
I think.
I don’t just mean that I’ve changed out of my chili-pepper boxers and into my going-home pants, although—to the audible relief of the tank residents in the animal room—I have. I’ve spent my last two days at WildWords Talk Training eschewing the Menagerie and, with C.C.’s help, focusing on skills I might actually use someday.
On Saturday morning, she called two surly chipmunks from the woods and gave me a crash course in Assertive Negotiation. She showed me how to conduct a productive and positive talk with a pigeon, and how they can be insightful helpmates if you don’t let their judgmental side get to you. She helped me expand my friendly-forest-animal repertoire through face-to-furry-face encounters in the woods, the bestowing device still strapped to my head but turned to the gentlest setting. By noon on Sunday, I’d had enjoyable chats with a friendly cottontail, an adorably grumpy groundhog, and a single-minded foodie of a red fox who kept trying to tell us where to hunt for the tastiest grasshoppers. Now, as I zip up my travel bag in the animal room, I find myself dreaming up a groundhog-and-rabbit mismatched-friends skit, all the kids giggling at the tiny vests and bowties I would pay my performers handsomely to wear.
you’ll be back tonight, right? Jay texts. the roach in our bedroom misses you.
“Levon…?” C.C. calls to me from her kitchen.
