Of Drag Kings And The Wheel Of Fate Part 4

Taryn returned with another flannel shirt. She walked to Rosalind and draped it over her shoulders like a cape. When she set her hands on Rosalind's shoulders, Rosalind reached up and covered one with her own. She couldn't resist touching her. Taryn didn't move away immediately. She gave Rosalind's shoulder a faint squeeze before retreating to the counter.

"How was the show last night?" Joe asked, handing Taryn an omelet. She ate standing up, her back to the counter.

"Good. Rosalind was there, ask her," Taryn said around a mouthful.

Joe glanced at Rosalind. "How'd she do?"

"She was magnificent," Rosalind said, looking at Taryn.

Joe snorted. "I meant during the show," he said, from the stove.

Taryn lashed out with the back of her hand, catching him in the stomach. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The show was good. Egyptia was on. I want to work on a few things for next week. Maybe you can help me, after we work out," Taryn said, polishing off the omelet. She grinned at Rosalind. "Joe's my masculine role model."

"Like you need one. You're the poster child for butch." The man laughed, taking the plate from her.

Taryn poured herself more coffee, then refilled Rosalind's mug. "Where's Goblin?" she asked Joe, leaning on his shoulder as he cleaned up.

"With her dad this weekend. Laurel's at her girlfriend's. Rhea's sleeping in. Seems there was quite a racket last night, kept us up." Rosalind choked on her coffee, felt herself blushing furiously. Joe looked at her mildly. "Some idiot left his car alarm on half the night. Didn't you hear it?"

"Must have been off by the time we came in," Taryn said, a sly grin on her face.

Taryn strolled to the fridge and peered at a chart that was written in several bold colors of marker and held up with cat-shaped magnets. "Rhea has me down for dishes this week?" she asked, disgust in her voice. "I hate dishes," she added, talking to the chart.

"It's character building. It'll help domesticate you someday," Joe said, dropping the skillet in the sink.

"Aren't you eating?" Taryn asked him.

Joe washed his hands, then wiped them off on a towel. "Already did. I'm gonna go wake Rhea. You want to help me with my shot first?"

Taryn looked at Rosalind, silent for moment. "Yeah. I'll be right back," she said, before following Joe up the back staircase.

Rosalind finished her omelet. One of the cats, a ma.s.sive calico, decided that she was interesting and came meowing across the floor. It circled around her chair, rubbing and crying, until she picked it up. The cat knocked its skull against Rosalind's knuckles, kneaded her lap with its front paws, and purred loudly. "You are such a friendly one," Rosalind said to the cat, as it circled in her lap, too excited to settle.

"She likes your energy."

Rosalind looked up into the face of the woman watching her. She was in her early forties, Rosalind guessed, with thick, curly brown hair threaded with gray. It stood out in a halo around her head, like the rays of the sun. At first Rosalind thought her eyes were a shade of ebony; then at second glance, they looked pure jet, swallowing the pupils. Her face was angular, severe. She was about Rosalind's height, not much over five feet four, and very thin. She wore a blue cotton dress, the hem hanging down to bare ankles.

"You must be Rhea," Rosalind said, her stomach knotting with apprehension. The woman hadn't smiled at her yet.

"I must be. You're Taryn's new friend."

"Uh, yes. I think I am." The cat left Rosalind's lap, running over to rub on Rhea's calves.

"You either are or you aren't," Rhea said, walking to the stove. She was unnerving in her composure, in the biting way she spoke. Her voice had a strain to it, as if words were a clumsy form of communication. The fact that Taryn spoke so highly of her only added to Rosalind's nervousness. She sensed that this woman's opinion mattered to Taryn more than anyone's in the world.

"Then I am her friend," Rosalind said, a.s.serting her right. This earned her a cool appraisal over one thin shoulder, as Rhea put a kettle on the stove.

"Joe's fed you."

It was a statement. Rosalind nodded in confirmation.

"He's good with that. Whoever shows up, he feeds. Would you like tea, or do you drink coffee?"

"I've had coffee, thanks," Rosalind said carefully.

Rhea made a tching noise in her throat. "Another one. Two coffee drinkers in the house is bad enough."

Rosalind stood up, conscious of the large sweatpants hanging off her body, how the T-shirt with its screaming message hung down to midthigh. She no longer felt comfortable and easy in the unstructured clothing. She felt ridiculous, an adult playing at being a teenager. She pushed her hair back behind her ears, then held her hand out to Rhea. Rhea took her hand and held it. The woman's hand was thin and sharp, like the blade of a knife. Rosalind could feel the bones through the skin. It was stronger than Rosalind expected, all sinew over the bone. There was no spare flesh anywhere on Rhea, and unlike Taryn, she wasn't padded with muscle. "I'm Rosalind."

"You're Rosalind. Well, that was inevitable," Rhea said, dropping her hand as if burned.

"Excuse me?" Rosalind asked her, not wanting to follow the turn the conversation was taking. She had the distinct impression that Rhea did not like her, and that scared her.

Rhea looked at her levelly, the way she might look at a rat sneaking across her floor. "I warned Taryn. But I know her. Naturally she ran right out and did the opposite."

"I'm sorry-" Rosalind began, but Rhea cut her off.

"You never were one to take a hint. You are not welcome here."

The sound of boots came clomping down the back stairs. Taryn galloped into the kitchen, surprise on her face. "Hey! Just went in to wake you up," she said, kissing Rhea on the cheek. The woman accepted the kiss, her eyes never leaving Rosalind.

"I should be going. Walk me out?" Rosalind asked. Taryn looked at her sharply, but inclined her head. Rosalind had a clear impression of Rhea's eyes following her out of the kitchen, pushing her.

She took her clothing from Taryn's room and walked down the front staircase.

"Keep the sweats."

"Thanks. Please thank Joe for me, for breakfast," Rosalind said, not looking at Taryn. Her confusion was cutting her in half. She wanted to grab on to Taryn and never let her go. She wanted to run away from this house and the fierce woman in the kitchen, who was even now waiting for Taryn. She had been friendly but distant in the sunshine. It bruised Rosalind's heart. She had put a different meaning on last night.

What had been life changing for her seemed the normal course of events for Taryn. Just another weekend. She remembered Taryn talking about Colleen, how clingy she was. By Taryn's own admission, they'd slept together a few times, and Taryn didn't seem to think they were involved. Grief settled on her, killing off the joy she'd felt since waking up. Rosalind wanted to get away before she started crying. She opened the door.

Taryn took Rosalind and pulled her in, kissing her slowly and thoroughly. Rosalind resisted for a moment, then gave in, melting against her strong body, her hands closing on Taryn's arms. "I'll see you later," Taryn said when they broke apart.

Rosalind nodded, unable to speak. She walked gingerly down the stairs, back into her own life.

Chapter Four.

Back in her own apartment, Rosalind didn't know where to begin. She'd shed her skin overnight. She was convinced her apartment would be different when she got back. It was, stubbornly, exactly as she left it-neat to the point of museum quality, tastefully furnished with natural wood and neutral colors.

Rosalind couldn't help but compare it to the house she had just left, with its constant state of restoration, the unfinished walls and exposed beams, the kitchen big as a stable, a haven against the world. Rosalind's own kitchen was small, perfect for one person, as the landlord had said. But there was no room to sit down, no room to linger and talk.

She tried putting the bright copper kettle on her electric stove, but the sound was unsatisfying. She poured hot water over instant coffee in one of her mother's teacups, and remembered the feel of the blue enamel mug in her hands. Her state of unrest was getting worse. Rosalind drew in a deep breath and faced her own confusion. She did what the women of her family line had done for generations when under emotional stress. She did laundry.

The sorting was the best part. Everything had a place, had a specific set of instructions on how to maintain it, keep it beautiful. There was no ambiguity, no fear. This was a skill her mother had taught her, insisting on it as a civilized virtue. "Other people may cook for you or buy you gifts, to impress you. But no one will ever care for your appearance as well as you do." You don't wash the cashmere in the machine; you put it with the delicates. You don't put the red blanket in with the socks; the dye will bleed. And so on, until it became a meditation.

At last it was ready. Rosalind stripped out of the T-shirt and sweats, her hand hesitating over them. They didn't fit anywhere, exactly, but her mother's training took over. It would be civilized to wash them, set them aside. Maybe she could give them back at some point.

The phone rang and Rosalind, who had been convincing herself that she was not thinking about anything or anyone in particular, answered it before it rang a second time. "h.e.l.lo?" Her voice rose sharply at the end of the word, making it more of a question than she'd wanted.

"Well, h.e.l.lo! So, I'm waiting. You're home. It's morning. How was coffee with Elvis?"

"Ellie," Rosalind said, as both identification and reproval.

"You find out anything good? Like, she's really straight, or she votes Republican? Must be good, you're not talking."

"I slept with her." There. She'd said it out loud, to someone in her own life. It existed now. There was no turning back. Shocked silence met her from the other end of the phone.

At last Ellie started breathing again. "When I said coffee is never just coffee, I didn't mean it. Wow, Ros. How was it?"

Rosalind closed her eyes. How was it? How did she answer a question like that? She was a professor. She insisted on context for everything, but there was no context for this. There was just a memory of one incredible night, one awkward morning, in the arms and out of the arms of a splendid young drag king. How could she fit this into her life narrative as anything other than an adventure? So Rosalind decided to give it context, make the story fit the category.

It would be an adventure she had had, while feeling daring. Something to t.i.tillate her much more exciting friend with, an anecdote. Taryn would become a colorful character to be brought out at c.o.c.ktail parties, entertaining people she didn't care for. The night would become manageable, under her control, not something that unsettled everything she'd ever believed about herself.

"It was incredible. She lives in this rundown Victorian in Allentown. We went back there and made love all night long on a mattress on the floor. In the morning some of the characters she lives with made me breakfast. She cavalierly kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way. Very Casablanca. You'd have loved it." Rosalind realized that tears were streaming down her face as she spoke, the words twisting a knife in her gut. It wasn't just an adventure, and trying to make it into one was agonizing.

"Oh, sweetie. You're doing laundry, aren't you?"

"How'd you know?" Rosalind asked, giving up on masking the sounds of crying.

"You sound like you're crying. If you're upset enough to cry, you're probably doing laundry. I'll be right over."

Ellie had a key to her apartment and lived nearby. She let herself in, walking right to Rosalind, who sat on the couch surrounded by piles of neatly sorted laundry. Ellie pushed a pile out of the way and sat down. She examined the piles of laundry, a spot of black drawing her eye. She plucked the T-shirt from the top of the pile and fixed her eyes on Rosalind. "don't des.e.xualize the movement? This is not yours. You okay, honey?"

"I feel like my skin has come off. We had the most incredible night. Taryn was...I thought she was feeling the way I felt. But the next morning, she was so distant. It's like she turned back into a stranger. I don't know what to think," Rosalind said, taking the T-shirt away from Ellie and refolding it.

"Men are dogs," Ellie said sincerely.

"Taryn's not a man." The image of Taryn in her black suit flashed into Rosalind's mind, blurring gender lines.

"Well, no. But that's the standard line the best friend is supposed to say, and she doesn't actually fit in the 'women are dogs' category. It's the best ad-libbing I could do."

Rosalind laughed and wiped tears from her eyes. "Egyptia warned me she was a dog. But I don't listen to warnings any better than Taryn does. I met Rhea the Witch."

"What's she like?" Ellie asked, her face betraying interest.

"Fierce. She didn't like me at all." Rosalind recalled the way Rhea had dropped her hand, and the explicit warning. It wasn't a comforting thought.

"I can't believe that. You are the most universally likable person who ever existed. Disney called. He wants to market you as a character. Rosalind the Cuddly Professor."

Rosalind looked at the piles of laundry that surrounded her. She reached out and knocked one over, watching as it tipped toward the floor. "I don't want to be cuddly anymore, Ellie. I want to be beautiful. Gorgeous. Heart-stopping. I've never wanted that before. It scares the h.e.l.l out of me. I'm playing a game where I don't know the rules."

"Whoa, rewind. That sounds suspiciously like The Continuing Adventures of Elvis. You going to see her again?" The question was valid, the interest on Ellie's face was genuine, but something in Rosalind hesitated in saying what had immediately jumped into her mind, that unqualified yes. She didn't know where that yes was coming from and didn't trust it. She knew well enough that spoken words keep growing, once you let them go.

"That wouldn't make any sense. We hardly have a great deal in common, and she gave me the literal kiss off-on the porch. I'm not a teenager. I can recognize danger a mile away," Rosalind said, ignoring the way her heart started to clench.

"Not to mention the heteros.e.xuality thing. You haven't mentioned that," Ellie said, rubbing her chin.

"Thank you very much, Dr. Freud. Not because it hasn't been running in circles in my head. I had a great time last night. It was so easy, it was almost scary. No, it was scary. But whoever went home with Taryn last night wanted it enough not to care. I'm just not sure who she is yet. Or how to go about finding out."

"Way too heavy for a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. You need distraction, not more thinking in circles. I suggest the three of us go shopping-you, me, and whoever slept with Elvis. Great s.e.x should always be celebrated with a new leather jacket," Ellie said. When Rosalind hesitated, Ellie took her hand. "Trust me, this too shall pa.s.s. Everything seems less dramatic after a few days."

Rosalind spent the rest of Sat.u.r.day heeding Ellie's advice to pamper herself, take long bubble baths, read trashy novels, and sleep. In the evening she walked, the memory of Taryn's hands far too vivid to allow her to rest. She prepared lectures for the next month, graded papers, saw a foreign film at the North Park with lots of subt.i.tles and weeping women on rocky coasts. She couldn't shake the feeling that Taryn was supposed to be beside her, for everything. When she caught herself walking toward her car, thinking that maybe she would just drive by Mariner Street to see if Taryn was walking around, she got scared. I've turned back into a teenager.

When she was a teenager, she'd never acted like this. She'd been very levelheaded, responsible. Her mother never hesitated to loan her the car. Her father trusted her dates to keep her out late. She'd tried to experiment with shoplifting in seventh grade, smoking in eighth, but none of it stuck. Drinking cases of light beer by the river bored her. Marijuana made her hungry, but little else. In rural Poughkeepsie it took an incredible amount of drive to be a problem child. She was, by default, the definition of a good girl. Was it her fault that she actually liked to read, that school wasn't a ch.o.r.e, that she liked succeeding at it? She was the kind of student teachers loved and other students disliked with glee.

There had to be a measure of adolescence that every person is doomed to go through. If you missed it when you were an adolescent, it didn't mean you led a charmed life, were too enlightened for all that hormonal frenzy. It waited for you, lulling you into a false sense of security, until you were convinced you were an adult. Then, bam! The fist of life got you, right between the eyes. You went from rational to obsessive in the blink of an eye.

Her mind chased its tail all night as she lay in bed. She reviewed every crush she'd ever had, male and female. Hadn't that English teacher in seventh grade been a definitive sign? No, wait. There had been the softball coach. That was definitive. If you didn't count Paul. Of course, there had been that one night with her college roommate. Tracey had broken up with her boyfriend, and they'd gotten sloppy drunk on strawberry wine, commiserating about the lack of good men.

She'd put her arm around Tracey's shoulders, just to be comforting. Tracey had turned into the embrace, and somehow they were kissing. The next morning, though, the only evidence it had ever happened was a throbbing hangover and Tracey's marked discomfort in being alone with her. Rosalind stared at the ceiling and thought about it. That might have been the closest to heartbroken she'd ever been.

Rosalind turned over on her stomach and hugged her pillow. Sleep was not just eluding her; it had left her vocabulary entirely. It took her a moment to admit, even to herself, that what she was feeling was loneliness. It wasn't the loneliness she'd felt in the cemetery. It was fixed on a certain face, a certain arrogant smirk, a certain set of hands. She wondered what it would be like to fall asleep with Taryn's arms around her. Rosalind groaned and covered her head with the pillow. This was not happening. She was not obsessed with a girl she had known for one night. She sat up and threw the pillow across the room. If sleep wouldn't play with her, she would scorn it in turn.

Rosalind walked into the living room and turned the television on. Piles of laundry still dominated the couch, evidence of her disturbed mental state. She took a perverse pleasure in that and sat between them, feeling rebellious. A girl had to start somewhere. She started flipping through the channels, looking for a doc.u.mentary, a film, anything but an infomercial. She saw opening credits and gave a small cheer. A late-night movie would be a perfect distraction. Marlon Brando, an excellent sign! Sayonara. She'd never seen this one. Rosalind settled back with grat.i.tude. An old movie would keep her mind quiet.

Pilot, Southern boy, engaged to a general's daughter, rea.s.signed from Korea to j.a.pan to marry her. Good, simple plot, nothing to break the state of receptivity. His friend is dating a j.a.panese woman, the army has fits, fine. He goes to see a show with his friend one night; apparently the star performer is spectacular. Oh, didn't anyone mention that she performs with an all-female troop and the tall women play male roles?

Rosalind sat disbelieving, staring at the screen, while Marlon Brando fell in love with Hana Ogi, male costume and all. She sat up as Marlon waited by the bridge day after day, hoping to get Hana Ogi to speak to him. The beautiful Hana Ogi, dressed in her male clothing, would stroll by, surrounded by adoring female fans. The women and girls would mob her, seeking her autograph, while she pointedly ignored her suitor. I can't get away from it for a single minute. Drag kings were haunting her. All right, she could admit it; she wanted to see her again.

Rosalind watched with great interest while Marlon Brando courted Hana Ogi, waiting by the bridge every morning and evening in the same spot, under the tree. It wasn't until he tried a new tactic and hid, watching from a different spot, that he saw the performer looking for him. It was like a sign from G.o.d, brought to her by way of Brando. She had to go stand by the bridge. There wasn't any bridge near 34 Mariner, not that she recalled, and none near Marcella's. It was getting very late; Rosalind's thoughts were getting hazy. She resolved, as she drifted off, to stand by the porch steps at 34 Mariner every night until Taryn noticed her.

The certainty she'd felt about the message from Brando had vanished in the night, leaving her feeling a little foolish. She'd slept lightly, jumping back and forth across the river of sleep like a child jumping a brook. Her dreams had been similarly capering, her mind refusing her access to the heart of her own mystery. In dreams, she hid from herself in a maze of symbology she couldn't decipher. Moments of the night had bled into images of Shiva dancing; the entanglement of mortal limbs became the swirling of multiple bronze arms. The crow landed again on the blue stone. Joe handed her coffee in Taryn's blue gla.s.s mug.

Rosalind awoke exhausted, lonely, her body knotted with unspent desire. She got out of bed just to make a cup of tea and found herself getting dressed. The laundry was still in piles on the couch. She put it ritually away. The black T-shirt and sweatpants were left, not having a s.p.a.ce of their own. When her body started walking to the car, she mentally whistled and ignored it. Thinking had gotten her nowhere. In a suspended state, carefully avoiding looking beyond the moment, she drove, letting her destination be a surprise.

The house at 34 Mariner faced east. Rosalind watched the sun start to gild the green shutters, pour across the front windows, and reveal Taryn's room. The sun would be creeping across the mattress in the alcove soon. Rosalind imagined the light touching Taryn's shoulders, the warmth moving down her back, along the bull dagger. She'd have to talk her into buying some shades. She couldn't keep getting up at this hour.

The red convertible wasn't parked out front. Rosalind wondered where Joe had parked it. He always used the spot in front of the house. He'd be up already, in the kitchen cooking, if he were home. Somehow, she didn't picture the household as likely to be at church. The porch was looking like a bridge to her, so she looked away. Rosalind's eye moved over the September garden. It would be gorgeous in the spring, with the roses and azaleas. Beyond the azalea bush, to the left, was a brick path, curving around the side of the house.

Curious, Rosalind left the car, carrying Taryn's clothing. The path ran along the side of the house, around to the back. Stacks of firewood, clay pots, an axe all lined the purple wall. Gra.s.s grew up between the bricks. Rosalind walked, feeling absurdly happy to be approaching the house. It took her a moment to realize she was humming "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" Rosalind grinned. The door at the end of the path was open, looking in on the backyard. The state of energetic disarray of the house extended to the yard, with its overgrown gra.s.s littered with gardening tools, what looked like a compost pile the size of a burial mound in the back left corner. The calico cat was sleeping on the back step, its paws folded away in the secret cat hiding spot. "Good morning," Rosalind said, softly. The cat opened its eyes, squinted in pleasure, and closed them again. That was enough of a welcome to make her feel wanted.

"Why are you creeping around my backyard?" Rhea asked from the open kitchen door. Rosalind froze. Her mind took a sabbatical, leaving her without the power of language. She stood at the foot of the steps up into the kitchen, looking at the one person she did not want to see. Rhea put down the teacup, folded her arms, and regarded Rosalind. "Well?"

Rosalind held out the clothing she was carrying. "I wanted to return Taryn's sweatpants."

"I'm surprised she didn't tell you to keep them. She says that to the others. I'm constantly buying her new sweatpants." Rhea picked up her cup of tea.

"Uh, well, she did. I just thought that..." Rosalind cudgeled her brain, screaming at it to come up with something clever. The look in Rhea's eyes paralyzed her, kept her from even approaching the screen door. It was like a confessional booth, and Rosalind had to fight down the urge to admit her impure thoughts. The look of humor on Rhea's face was cold.

"You thought you could see her again and ended up in my backyard at sunrise. Am I going to have to set a warding against you?" Rhea asked. Rosalind wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good.

"Of course not. I'll just drop these off and be gone. Is Taryn here?" she asked, trying to gather a sense of annoyance at this gatekeeper. It wasn't often that she felt like a complete fool before the sun had been up for half an hour.