Khimairal Ink

1

Khimairal Ink

2

Khimairal Ink

Publisher Claudia Wilde Managing Editor Carrie Tierney Assistant Editor C.A. Casey Layout/Story Art T.J. Mindancer

In This Issue

3 HH

Claudia Wilde

Labor of Love

4 HH

Carrie Tierney

6 HH

The Gift

13 HH R. G. Emanuelle

A Light for Revelation Wet Paint ISSN 1939-3393 Khimairal Ink Magazine is published January, April, July, and October. Š 2009 Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

Elaine Burnes

Spring Fever

23 HH

V. Jo Hsu

28 HH

Jean Roberta

36 Contributors

3

H

Khimairal Ink

appy Spring! We apologize for the missing January issue. The two-sided sword of success reared its fanged head. We had projects with anxious authors that needed finishing which left Khimairal Ink waiting patiently in the wings. I think you’ll find the delay well worth it once you read the top-notched stories selected for our April issue. No foolin’!

Choices by our protagonists and their subsequent effects are the re-occurring theme in this month’s stories. Although, our cover picture isn’t a really choice but a plastic-in-an-oven oops, we chose to create something positive out of it.

How did they handle their challenges? “The Gift”

by Elaine Burnes depicts the panic of getting the right gift for a loved one when your shopping skills are questionable. Does time heal all

wounds? Or are some too deep to fix? Find out in R. G. Emanuelle’s heart/gut wrenching tale, “A Light for Revelation.” If walls could talk, “Wet Paint” by V. Jo Hsu examines a retrospective look at long-time partners and their changing future. Exploring a new outlook on life with a teen-ager in the house can be very challenging.

Just ask Mary in “Spring Fever” by Jean Roberta.

Spring means rebirth and new growth. Hopefully you will find something to take from these stories and enrich your lives.

Thanks for reading!

Enjoy!

Claudia

4

K

Khimairal Ink

himairal Ink is a labor of love for Bedazzled Ink. This is another way of saying we don’t make any money from it. But you know what?

We’ve made something much better than money. We’ve met some really cool people— authors, artists, and readers. You guys are the greatest.

We owe our success as a publisher to Khimairal Ink. Several Bedazzled Ink authors were first contributors to Khimairal Ink and others came to Khimairal Ink after we published their books or stories in anthologies.

Bedazzled Ink now has five imprints and an online bookstore to maintain. Our venture into ebooks has been an overwelming success.

Khimairal Ink for the first time had to be shuffled aside until we adjusted to another growth spurt.

Shuffled aside but not forgotten. One of our goals this year is to offer issues of Khimairal Ink in formats friendly to ebook readers.

Our authors often waive their story payment to help keep Khimairal Ink going and to keep it free. The best way Khimairal Ink readers can help is to buy Bedazzled Ink books when a title catches your fancy. The Bedazzled Book Peddler (http://bedazzledink.com/bbp) is a good place to start—especially if you’re looking for ebooks. Or you can buy them at your favorite bookstore.

The four stories in this issue explore relationships in different ways, each ending with an awakening. Much like spring is an awakening.

The time of year when we feel ready to take on the world.

Enjoy!

Carrie

Do you write stories that are positive, quirky, clever, funny, light, breezy?

Do you write stories that make us laugh, or at least smile a lot?

Do your stories stray from the garden path of expectation in amusing ways?

In other words, are your stories fun and original and entertaining and may even have an out-of-the-blue surprise or two or clever twists?

If “yes” to any of these questions, Nuance is looking for you. http://www.bedazzledink.com/nuance

5

Khimairal Ink

6

M

Khimairal Ink

orning gleamed like a poem as fat snowflakes spiraled past my window. I like how snow silences the world, a cold compress salving the fevered pace of life. This was the first of the season. If it didn’t turn to rain, as forecast, I’d have to deal with it, but for now, I enjoyed the view and savored the warmth of flannel sheets, the weight of the comforter, and the delicate, floral scent of the woman curled against me. The furnace came on with a comforting “oomph” down in the basement, and soon creaks and groans accompanied the hot water expanding the heat pipes along the baseboards.

My companion shifted. Her left hand, cupping my bare breast, squeezed, not with any intent to stoke desire, but with a dream. I smiled and kissed her curls.

I sighed. What could be better? Freshly fallen snow, a beautiful woman, new love. My breath caught. Holy . . .

“Shit.”

“Hmmm?” She stirred. “What’s wrong?” she mumbled, sleepily. It came out more like “Whiz’ong?”

“Nothing, hon.” I combed my fingers through her hair until her breathing settled back into its sleepy rhythm.

My heart pounded. I stared at the ceiling and held my breath, willing myself not to hyperventilate. My stomach churned, a different sensation from last night, when I was full from Abby’s amazing dinner—her roast turkey, special cranberry sauce, apple pie, and stuffing—oh, the stuffing. A Thanksgiving feast fit for Pharaohs.

What followed Thanksgiving and snow and

falling in love? I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly.

Christmas. Christmas meant presents.

Presents meant buying something for Abby. The first big gift-giving event of our relationship. Make or break time, yet I hardly knew her. Sure, we’d been together three months, and I had moved in last month, but that wasn’t enough time before the First Big Gift. Not nearly enough.

Oh, why did I have to fall in love in the summer? Why couldn’t it have been January?

January would have left me a whole year to get to know her. Wait, Valentine’s Day would be worse than Christmas. March. Let me have met her in March. Maybe there’d be a birthday along the way, but that could tossed off with a simple dinner out. But Christmas. Jesus H. Christ on a raft.

F

or the next week, I wracked my brain. Had she dropped any hints? None that I could recall. I resorted to asking her directly.

“I only want you,” she replied with a hug and a kiss. Sweet, but not helpful.

What do you buy the lesbian Martha Stewart?

That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I really needed to know! She manages a gift shop, for Christ’s sake. Plus she has her own catering and interior design business. She’s the expert everyone turns to for gift-giving occasions. Where could I turn? We had no mutual friends—she wasn’t from my lesbian inner circle. I didn’t know her family at all. Besides, you shouldn’t have to ask someone else what to buy the person you love. Right? Desperate, I went to my best friend, Roz.

7

Khimairal Ink

“Does she like to cook?” Roz isn’t known for her power of observation.

We stood at a butcher block table, under a forest of hanging, gleaming copper pots in a kitchen that while not large looked as though Abby had walked into Williams-Sonoma, held out a credit card, and said, “Outfit me.” This was Abby’s kitchen. Our kitchen, she was always saying since I moved in. I still didn’t know where the butter knives were. Hell, I didn’t know what a butter knife was.

I closed my eyes and steadied myself. “You have no idea.” I pulled a fat cookbook off the shelf and slid it toward Roz. Potluck Potpourri.

Abby’s face smiled from the cover as she held up a steaming casserole. The dimples and blue eyes were real, and realistically cute, although they had Photoshopped her teeth whiter. “A fucking bestseller on the New York Times list for eighteen weeks.”

Roz stepped back as though the book might explode. She looked up at me, her eyes narrowed. “You hate to cook. So why are you two together?”

“With her, I don’t have to, which is probably for the best. I’d hate to compete with her on anything.”

“Is it the sex? Is that why she likes you?” Roz strained to keep from grinning, but her eyes betrayed a mischievous crinkle. “I always suspected you were really hot in bed. Those muscles . . .” Her eyebrows waggled suggestively. Everything’s about sex to Roz. “Yeah, and the dirt under my fingernails. Sandpaper skin’s a real turn on.” I rolled my eyes.

“Focus, Roz. I need help here, not therapy.”

Roz, being a mere mortal, did the only thing she could. She took me to the mall. Not just any mall. The Burlington Mall. The biggest, baddest mall in the Boston area. So generically American, it’s where they filmed Mall Cop. Roz drove, suspecting, correctly, that I’d have no idea how to get there. We went early on a Saturday morning, while there were still parking spaces available. As she took the exit from the highway, the building loomed like a mutant queen bee, surrounded by acres of pavement that was quickly filling to capacity with drone-like cars, their occupants in a frenzy of feeding the beast with currency and removing the endless

waste products. Maybe more like a parasite, a giant fat, sucking leech, bleeding— “Get a grip, will you?” Roz said as she pulled into a space. Had I said that out loud? “It’s a mall, not some allegory for the destruction of the planet.”

See? No power of observation.

Freezing rain and sleet coated the cars as we stepped out into a thin layer of slush. We began at Sears, which, in retrospect, I thought was brilliant. Roz soon saw the error in her plan as I stood, mesmerized, surrounded by garden tools. I reached for a gleaming blade.

“Step away from the wall,” Roz said, firmly grabbing my arm.

“But . . . bypass pruners.” My gaze danced along the display. “Loppers . . . on sale . . .”

Without letting go she dragged me from the hardware section. Still somewhat dazed, I let her lead me through the store. She muttered under her breath as we passed racks filled with garish dresses in orange and lime green, blew by shelves of handbags the size of seat cushions, and wove among the preppy Land’s End displays. “Nah. Uh uh. Nope.” I looked at her, puzzled. “C’mon,” she said. And we headed into the maw of the mall.

The clamor of American commerce hit me like a shock wave. Bells jangled, Muzak warbled, children cried.

“Over here,” Roz said, raising her voice to be heard.

We retreated into a jewelry store. A hush fell over us. The harsh fluorescent lights of the mall gave way to subdued, dramatic presentations over glass display cases filled with the shimmering result of Third World slave labor. I wandered among the glittery goods. I don’t wear jewelry other than a watch, a Timex I usually have to replace every couple of years because I forget and reach into a bucket of water or run it through the laundry by mistake. Here were rows and rows of watches, for ladies, gentlemen, and even Disney timepieces for little princesses.

More rows of necklaces, bracelets, and rings with stones of astonishing shapes, colors, and sizes. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. I felt like Dorothy, stunned by the Emerald City. Overwhelmed, I turned to Roz. “Help me out, here.

What would you buy Zoey?”

8

Khimairal Ink

Roz spun a rack of gold and silver necklaces.

“God, kid, we’ve been married for eight years now. We don’t even buy gifts anymore.”

I looked at her in horror. “What? Why are we here? This was your idea, remember?”

She smiled innocently, but if we had been anywhere other than a fancy jewelry store, she’d have stuck her tongue out at me. Betrayed, I turned back to the display case.

“May I help you?” A young woman materialized behind the counter. Her pale face gleamed, her shiny blonde hair pulled tight into a ponytail.

All the better to show off her elaborate dangling earrings and a shiny necklace draped over deep cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline of her simple black blouse. A gold, plastic nametag identified her as Isabella. I wondered if that was really her name. She looked more like a Wanda.

“Just browsing,” I said, trying to avoid staring at her cleav—, er, jewels. Roz pinched me.

“We’re looking for a nice gift,” Roz said.

“Earrings, bracelet . . .” She looked at me for some guidance. I shrugged.

For the next hour, Isabella presented assorted sparkly things. Each time, she carefully set the item on a black velvet mat accompanied by a look that said, touch this and you die. I remained unimpressed.

“I don’t know what she likes,” I protested.

Isabella arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Mother, aunt?”

“Girlfriend,” Roz said, engrossed in a brooch.

I felt myself blush. Not because she’d just outed me, but because I still wasn’t used to that term.

I have a girlfriend. I sighed. That seemed hopelessly high school.

“Ah,” Izzy cooed. I felt the nickname appropriate for someone I was spending so much time with. “How serious? Diamond serious, gold serious, or just silver serious?”

I stared at her. “I didn’t know there were categories.”

She smiled enigmatically.

I cleared my throat and glanced down into the case at neatly aligned rows of diamond rings.

Tethered to each was a small white label. Most were face down, hiding the prices, but I spotted one flipped over. It lay upside down and was handwritten, but clearly showed four digits.

“I don’t think I can afford diamond serious,” I said quietly.

Roz shook her head. “Unless you’re ready to propose, stick to gold or silver. And no rings.

The size of the box alone will give her ideas.”

My stomach clenched. Propose? Ideas?

I settled on a gold chain, more to reward Izzy for her patience than from any confidence that I’d found The Gift.

Roz and I headed back into the mall and made our way down the main thoroughfare.

In the time that we’d been in the jewelry store, the place had become vastly more crowded.

Harried mothers pushed strollers, bored fathers carried sleeping children and bursting shopping bags, clutches of teenage girls walked together, texting or chatting into cell phones, each deep in her own private conversation, maybe to each other. The noise rose to ear-splitting levels as music poured out of stores and through the mall sound system—nonreligious holiday tunes, classics, and remixed oldies. I couldn’t help but notice that most shops sold clothing geared to a form of female unknown to me. Skinny pants, skimpy tops, and pink, everywhere pink. Kiosks displaying cell phones, watches, earrings, sleep apnea machines—sleep what?—and sports memorabilia dotted the aisle, altering the course of foot traffic like boulders in a river. I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, convinced success would mean my ultimate demise.

“How about music?” Roz asked as we stopped outside an electronics store.

“I know she likes Enya.”

Roz rolled her eyes and continued on.

“Explain to me again why you two are together?”

I ignored her, mostly since I couldn’t answer her question. What is it that brings people together? Roz had been my best friend for eons, long before she met Zoey, yet we’d never hooked up. Was she that different from Abby?

And if so, why did I like them both? Attraction is a mysterious force.

A powerful stereophonic beat pulsed from a Bose store. Hmm. “What about a stereo? Her CD player skips.”

Roz shook her head. “You can’t afford Bose.

Trust me. You only work half the year.”

“I work year round,” I protested.

“Snowplowing doesn’t count.”

9

Khimairal Ink

“It does, too,” I said. “Depending on the snowfall, I can do better than in summer.”

“Yeah, ‘depending,’” she said, making little air quotes with her fingers. “And with global warming, you’re in a dying profession.”

“Not the summer work!”

“Yard work doesn’t count, either. Does she know you mow lawns?”

“I do not mow lawns.” I turned so she’d see the back of my jacket—Ecological Landscaping Services. Powered by People, not Petroleum.

“And of course she knows. That’s how we met.”

Roz sneered. “Yeah, catchy tagline there. Just how many ‘people’ you got working for you?”

I made a face. She knew it was just me. “It’s a new business. It’s growing.”

She laughed. “No pun intended.”

I smiled. The only reason I let Roz rag on me is because I know she doesn’t mean it. After all, she designed my logo and my website. There are plenty who do mean it, though, like bankers denying loans because they don’t understand my niche. I specialize in natural landscaping. Get rid of the lawn and put down native groundcovers, perennials, and shrubs. You save on gas, fertilizer, weed killers, water, and you attract birds and butterflies. Roz and Zoey were my first customers. Roz even took the photos of their yard, before and after, that I feature on my website.

Still, she was right about my finances. Bose was not in the cards, or the wallet. We moved on.

Soon we made it to the heart of the beast, or, to keep with my earlier metaphor, the center of the hive, where we found the meaning of life. Or at least of life at this time of year. Santa Claus. Surrounded by a white fence and blankets of fake snow, a path curved toward a gilt throne where sat the jolly old fellow himself, looking perhaps a bit thin and bored, as dozens, maybe hundreds of children and their parents, or whichever grownup the parents could cajole into taking on this chore, lined up to list their demands. We gave the whole scene as wide a berth as possible.

“What about a picture frame?” Roz asked.

We had moved on to a camera shop and she was examining a pewter 8 by 10.

“Too intimate. Then I suppose she’d want a picture of me for it.”

Roz put the frame back on the shelf. “Yeah,

it’d be awkward to put her ex in there.” She glared at me. “What do you mean ‘too intimate’?

You two are having sex, are you not?”

“That’s different.”

Roz howled. She made me buy one anyway and we resumed our trek, my quest for the relationship holy grail.

At Williams-Sonoma, Roz spotted Abby’s cookbook. She grabbed it off the shelf and held it up for the crowd of shoppers as though giving a demonstration. “Hey, Becca,” she said, louder than necessary. “Here’s your girlfriend’s cookbook!” She leafed through the pages. “My, these look like yummy recipes,” she said in her best QVC voice.

I pretended I didn’t know her and made my way down the utensil wall. Who knew spatulas came in so many shapes, sizes, and materials.

Silicone? Clearly not just for breasts anymore.

I didn’t know what half the gewgaws were, but recognized most of them from Abby’s drawers.

She really had been outfitted here. Coals to Newcastle came to mind.

Roz came up behind me. “There’s got to be something here for her, right?”

“You saw her kitchen.” I swept my arm in an arc. “Hello! This is Abby’s kitchen.”

It was time for a break. All those kitchen goodies had made me hungry, so we headed for the food court. On the way, we passed a Rainforest Café—dining as entertainment. Sensory overload to distract you from your appointment with obesity. I stood transfixed, watching fish swim through a tube-shaped aquarium that framed a doorway separating what looked like a gift shop from what was probably the restaurant. Fog misted across fake wetland displays and plastic vines covered the ceiling. An enormous painted plaster mushroom marked the entrance.

Roz chuckled. “They’re either offering an LSD special or it’s an homage to Alice in Wonderland.”

“Something for everyone,” I said.

When we arrived at the food court we discovered there were no McDonald’s, no Burger King, but instead Japanese, Chinese, Thai, and, we noticed, a currency exchange.

“Are you sure we’re still in America?” I asked.

I wasn’t convinced a mall could offer truly fine

10

Khimairal Ink

international dining, so we settled for Dunkin’ Donuts. Once satiated, we resumed our excursion, but passed the Yankee Candle shop without going in. Abby sells that kind of stuff in her store, and besides, I started coughing at the entrance. Does everything have to smell?

The easiest purchase was a nice card at the Hallmark shop. Roz suggested an ornament, and I perused them all carefully. But Snoopy on a sled, as cute as he was, somehow didn’t fulfill my dream of The Perfect Gift.

Back in the salmon stream, we latched onto a mall directory and scoured it looking for a bookstore. The closest they had was a newsstand.

We made our way there, Roz shaking her head and muttering about “a bunch of illiterates.”

Then, every title I pulled off the meager display of mass market paperbacks, Roz grabbed from me and put back. “You’re only picking books you like.”

“So?” “So, Patricia Cornwell is not an appropriate first big gift for your girlfriend.”

“But I need to know what happens to Lucy!”

Roz threw up her hands in disgust and abandoned me. I found her by the escalator sitting in a massage chair.

“It works better if you put money in it,” I said.

“I would, but then I’d feel like I’m in a sleazy Vegas motel.”

Just as I sat in the one next to her, she stood up. “C’mon. Time to get serious.” I groaned.

The next shop we came to was Victoria’s Secret. Roz’s eyes lit up. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She headed straight in, but I couldn’t make it past the doorway, as though a force field kept me out. She turned when she realized I hadn’t followed. I shook my head. “I can’t go in there.”

She gave me a hopeless look as I retreated to a grouping of faux leather couches across from the door, joining elderly men who were either waiting while their wives shopped or ogling Victoria’s patrons, who, to be frank, didn’t look anything like the scantily clad, stick-thin models on the bigger-than-life posters in the windows. Thankfully, Abby didn’t look like those models either, and I suppose lingerie is an entirely appropriate gift, but still, I find that whole “edible underwear” thing kind of gross. Not that we’re prudes . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by Roz, who emerged from the store. She wouldn’t look at me but headed to the next shop.

“Well?” I asked, jogging to catch up.

“Well, what?”

I noticed she carried a small bag. “What’s in the bag? Did you buy something for me to give Abby?”

Roz stopped. “No. If you want to give Abby something from that store, you go in there and get it yourself.” She resumed walking.

“What did you get? Something for Zoey?” I asked, reaching for the bag to get a peek.

She whipped it away from me. “Never you mind.”

Laughing, I followed her into Pottery Barn and immediately stopped to admire a desk of dark, polished wood. It reminded me of the day I met Abby. Just last August. A hot day, as I recalled. I’d only talked to my new customer on the phone and had stopped by to walk the property and gather some ideas before meeting with the couple that Saturday. I didn’t think anyone was home until a pert young thing poked her head out the door and asked for my help.

She needed a desk moved. It was heavy, but she didn’t just stand there and watch me, she helped.

“It’s antique, be careful,” she said after I’d pinched my hand between it and the wall. Better to bust a hand than dent an antique, I mused.

Her diva tone kind of pissed me off. After we’d moved the behemoth, she noticed my hand was swelling. It was while she was looking for ice in the freezer that I realized she didn’t live there. If she did, she’d have known there wasn’t any.

“You robbing the place?” I asked.

She laughed. Pure and crystalline. It pierced me with glory and left me stunned. She ran a hand through her thick, brown curls. That’s when I noticed how sexy she was. Her T-shirt was short enough and her slacks slung low enough that when she raised her arm, a hint of midriff peeked out. Normally I hate that look, but on her it transformed my own midsection to jelly.

“No,” she said, “I’m a decorator. Among other things.” She held out her hand. “Abigail.”

I would have taken it but for the fact that my right hand held a bag of frozen organic wild blueberries against my swollen left hand. She

11

Khimairal Ink

laughed again, this time shy and self-conscious.

“Sorry about that. The desk, I mean. I made it sound like your hand was expendable.” She looked me up and down, her gaze settling on my left breast, or maybe on the embroidery there.

“You’re a landscaper. You need your hands.”

She glanced down at my hands then up, meeting my eyes. “They are nice hands.” My heart melted along with the berries.

“I’m Rebecca,” I managed to croak.

Dazed by the memory, I made my way to the back of the store where I was drawn to a fourposter bed. “We have that comforter,” I said, to no one in particular. Was it just last night that we made love under that comforter? I sighed. “I miss her.”

“She’s at home, waiting for you.” Roz snapped her fingers in front of my face, like I’d gone comatose. “It is the sex. That’s why you two are together.” The glee in her voice was notable.

Maybe, I thought. Until Abby introduced me to Bag Balm, I was afraid to touch her with my rough, calloused hands. “Tongues are soft,” she’d said. She was right.

“She’s not at home,” I whined. “She’s working in her shop. I’ll be lucky if I see her before Christmas morning.”

Roz wasn’t paying any attention to me. “Wow, she’s got money!”

I came to. Roz was holding up the price tag.

“No. Some client gave it to her when she decided she didn’t like it. Couldn’t return it because her kid had thrown up on it.”

“Eww.” “It washed out.”

Roz looked at me, and her shoulders slumped.

Anticipating what would come next, I raised my hands in defeat. “Don’t ask it, because I can’t answer you.” I felt more tired than if I’d planted a dozen trees. “Can we go home now?”

Eight days later, or maybe it only seemed that long, we emerged from the mall, released, like prisoners on parole. The sky had cleared, and we squinted into the bright, low solstice sun. If it wouldn’t have looked so damn Pope-like, I’d have knelt and kissed the pavement.

We searched in vain for Roz’s car, discovered we’d come out the wrong doorway, and walked around the building. I refused to go back inside and cut through.

Roz opened her trunk, and I tossed in my packages. “You realize you bought more stuff for yourself than for her,” she said, with more than a hint of disgust.

“They’re all things she’d never think of. That I needed anyway.”

Roz heaved a sigh and unlocked the car. My feet throbbed, grateful for me to sit, finally.

E

ach evening, while Abby went through paperwork from her store or called clients or worked on her blog, I would retreat to the corner of the basement she had cleared for my workshop. I’d put on some Enya—Abby says it sparks creativity—and whittle. I’m always bringing home interesting branches or scraps leftover from my job. Working with wood relaxes me. It’s mindless but natural, the wood pure and organic in my hands. No power tools, just a sharp knife, some awls and chisels, and a variety of sandpaper grits. The hours melt away.

I was down there Christmas Eve. Through the ceiling, I could hear Abby humming along with carols. Desperate and despondent, I opened the box with my stash from the mall. It was time to make that final decision. What among these boxes and wrappings and price tags adequately signified the material representation of our relationship? Necklace, picture frame, books, nail clippers . . . Huh? “Oh, right.” I ripped open the package and slipped them into my pocket.

None of these was good enough. Roz’s question echoed, why are you two together?

Abby was the most important person in my life, and this is all I have to show for it? To show her how I feel? I just wanted to cry.

C

hristmas morning I held my breath as I handed Abby her present. I had to start breathing again, however, or I would have suffocated by the time she painstakingly peeled back the tape to so as not to damage the paper. I rolled my eyes. “We can reuse this,” she explained, flattening and folding it, and carefully setting it aside before opening the box.

She parted the tissue paper and peered inside.

This time my heart stopped.

“Oh, Becca! It’s beautiful.” She held up the

12

Khimairal Ink

delicate hummingbird ornament, wings spread as though frozen in flight. “Where did you ever find this?”

My face flushed. In the light of day, it didn’t look so great. The head wasn’t right, and the bill was too short, though the speckled bird’s eye maple pattern shined through the light oil polish.

I liked the natural look, but it simply wasn’t nice enough for a First Big Gift. Mortified, I let out a defeated breath. “I didn’t buy it, Ab.”

She looked at me, brow furrowed, questioning.

“I made it.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked back at the bird then at me, tears welling. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I love it!” She cradled it as though it was the live, fragile bird, turning it carefully, examining every detail. “It’s you!”

My scalp tingled, and I grinned with relief.

That’s why we’re together.

Raise the sails!

Adjust the thrusters!

Prepare to embark on courageous adventures on water, land, and sky. From Viking battles of revenge and high sea betrayal, to modern-day piracy and space banditry, these twenty tales conjure up our inner pirate. Join the crews of women pirates who triumph in victory, face the gallows, and become unlikely heroes–women who follow the code of the Skull & Crossbones.

Skulls & Crossbones edited by Andi Marquette R.G. Emanuelle

Mindancer Press

http://bedazzledink.com/?page_id=214

13

S

Khimairal Ink

tella and Rickie hugged their jackets closer to their bodies, bracing themselves against the biting November chill. Leaves still covered the ground, swirling around like mini tornadoes in the brutal wind.

Wordlessly, they walked to the coffee shop on the next block. This had become their ritual in the past year. After their counseling sessions, they’d sit in a booth, order coffee and cake, and go over what they’d just talked about.

Tonight, Rickie stopped them midway. “Let’s go home, Stella. I don’t want to go to the coffee shop tonight.”

Stella blinked uncomprehendingly. “But they have chocolate cake tonight. Your favorite.”

Rickie stared at the ground, brown, crinkled leaves tumbling over her feet. “I know,” she said, absent-mindedly kicking the leaves. “It’s just . . . I need to go home. I need to talk to you . . . in private.”

Stella nodded silently and allowed Rickie to lead her home.

On the way, Stella’s stomach felt like it had stuffed itself up into her esophagus, pressing on her lungs, making her feel like she was suffocating. Something was wrong.

Rickie had become more and more reticent lately, not as willing to share her thoughts the way she used to. It was in Rickie’s eyes, her expressions, in the growing sadness that seemed to emanate from her. No, it was more than that. Turmoil. But where it came from, Stella had no idea. As much as she gently prodded Rickie to talk to her about it, Rickie clammed up every time.

Turning down the coffee shop’s chocolate cake? Something was definitely up, but Stella let Rickie lead her home in silence.

A

small table lamp illuminated their living room with a dim glow. Stella tried to light a candle, as she had every week after they’d come home from the coffee shop. They’d put on soft music, light a candle, and hold each other, whispering their hopes and wishes. But this time, Rickie stopped her.

“Forget the candle,” she said, in a tone that worried Stella. It was . . . somber.

Rickie sat on the opposite end of the couch from Stella and stared at its floral pattern for several moments. Stella reached across the cushions and put a hand on Rickie’s thigh.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s bothering you?”

Her stomach clenched.

Rickie finally spoke, but never took her eyes off the pale lavender hyacinth etched on the couch. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Stella observed Rickie’s face, wondering when Rickie would look at her. Rickie had never avoided her eyes. Stella felt lightheaded. She didn’t know what Rickie was going to say, but it wasn’t going to be good. She wanted to say soothing words to help Rickie speak her mind, but she couldn’t find any.

Rickie started slowly. “You know how we’ve been going to these sessions?” she asked, tracing the hyacinth with her finger. “I think we’ve learned a lot about each other, don’t you?”

Stella nodded, strangely numb.

“And about ourselves. Right? Don’t you feel that way?”

Okay, here it is, Stella thought. She’s going to tell me some weird thing she’s discovered about herself. Like maybe she wants to be whipped or wants to be a circus clown. Oh, God, please don’t tell me you want a sex change.

14

Khimairal Ink

Rickie stopped tracing the hyacinth and rested her finger on the tip of a petal for a moment before looking up at Stella. Her eyes shifted across Stella’s features, as if trying to memorize her face.

“I never thought I’d ever be saying anything like this,” Rickie said before exhaling heavily.

Stella gripped the arm of the sofa. Here it comes.

“I want to have children.”

That’s it? The sensation that raced through Stella’s body was as if she’d been running at top speed and suddenly stopped short. And though she was not expecting it, this was hardly worth Rickie’s big build-up.

“Oh,” she said, loosening her grip on the couch. “I guess I’m a little surprised but we can talk about it, if that’s what you really want.” Stella smiled. “Yeah, maybe we can have kids.”

Rickie stared into Stella’s eyes a moment, her own hazel ones full of fear and sadness. “No, you don’t understand. I want to have the kids.”

Looking at her butch girlfriend, with her buzzed sandy blonde hair, football jersey, and carpenter’s pants, Stella sat silently. She’d never thought Rickie would want something like that.

It took a moment of processing but then she realized that plenty of butches probably had babies. And why shouldn’t they? “Okay, babe. If that’s what you want.”

Rickie turned her head, frustration showing in the balled fists on her thighs. Taking a deep breath, she said slowly, “Stella, I want to have kids, but I want to have a family—a normal family.” When Stella didn’t respond, she continued. “I want to have kids and get married.” Then she added, “To a man.”

Stella couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d been hit in the head with a frying pan. A sudden urge to vomit swept through her.

Irreverently, she thought that it was a good thing they’d skipped the chocolate cake after all. The muscles in her chest twitched and tightened and she struggled to breathe. She finally stuttered, “I . . . I don’t understand. What?”

Rickie rested her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. “I know this sounds like it’s coming out of left field but it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

“A long time? Like from when?”

“Well, I always knew deep down that I wanted kids but it just never seemed possible. I actually felt wrong for wanting to have children.

I’m a woman. A woman should never feel wrong for wanting children.”

Stella forced herself to take a moment to calm down. Maybe there was a solution. Maybe Rickie was just afraid of the clinical aspect of getting pregnant.

“Rickie, honey, you don’t have to marry a man to have a baby. You know we can do this together. You can do in vitro. I’ll be there every step of the way for you.” She placed her hand on Rickie’s arm. “I’ll help you.”

Rickie moved her arm from Stella’s touch, then stood up, still averting her eyes.

“Stella, I don’t want in vitro. And I don’t want to adopt. And I don’t want to sleep with a man just to get pregnant.” It was as if Rickie had gone through all the options in her head and was tossing them out one by one. “I want a regular family.”

Twisting the engagement ring on her finger back and forth, Stella stared at Rickie’s profile, trying to sort out what she’d just heard. Rickie didn’t seem to have prepared any other speeches for her argument so the silence lingered for several moments, until Stella broke it.

“I don’t understand. Where is this coming from? Why?” Her shock was turning into anger.

“I can understand wanting kids, but why with a man?”

Rickie’s response was almost inaudible. “I want a normal life.”

“A normal life? You mean like the one you grew up with?” Stella knew that the sarcasm would not be lost on Rickie. “Your father was an alcoholic, your mother was a passive enabler, and your two brothers are assholes.

That’s the ‘normal’ you’re looking for?” The words hurt Rickie—Stella knew that even as she uttered them, but she was hurt, too. And so confused. What Rickie was saying made no sense.

The dim light from the table lamp cast shadows on Rickie’s face as she turned to face Stella, but they didn’t hide the sadness reflected in her eyes and the creases in her forehead. “No. That’s the opposite of what I want,” she said. “I

15

Khimairal Ink

want a chance to fix that, to give my kids the life I wish I’d had.”

Stella regarded Rickie for a moment, then said, “That’s a crock of shit.” She pounded the coffee table, causing the TV remote to bounce.

“What’s the real reason?”

Gazing into Stella’s eyes, Rickie shifted her feet and swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be gay anymore. It’s too hard.”

S

tella kicked the door closed with her foot.

Juggling the bag of Thai take-out with one hand and a huge stack of mail with the other, she headed to the living room and barely made it to the coffee table just as everything started sliding out of her fingers. She let the mail fall and set the food on the table before changing into sweats then grabbing a dish, some silverware, and a pile of napkins, which she took to the coffee table.

Sitting down to eat, she contemplated the silence around her, letting it wash over her. It was a welcome sound after a crazy day of deadlines and a bitchy boss crabbing at her to do five more things while still getting her regular work done on time. The silence had not always been a soothing balm to a hectic day, though; for a while, it was salt in her wounds. Six months’ worth.

The first six months after Rickie left were the hardest, but Stella had finally gotten used to being alone and coming home to an empty apartment. It’s not so bad, she thought, as she scooped forkfuls of pad Thai onto her plate.

Thank God for therapy.

As she ate, she sorted through her mail. Tons of bills. Finally, the books she’d ordered three months before. One envelope stopped her midchew. It was addressed to Rickie. She hadn’t gotten anything for Rickie in a long time. Stella examined the envelope and saw that it was one of those credit card come-ons. Nothing important.

No contact from Rickie at all in a year and a half. It was just as well—Stella had no desire to know how Rickie was doing with her vanilla sky dreams. She closed her eyes. Rickie had made her choice, and Stella had no place in it. If Rickie wants to be a heterosexual breeder, so be it.

She opened up her eyes, swallowed hard,

and tossed the envelope aside. Picking up her food again, she thought about Vonnie, realizing she hadn’t spoken to her in almost three weeks. She smiled. Von had the amazing ability to keep tabs on everyone she’d ever met. And she had been Stella’s main line of information about Rickie—the little she had cared to hear.

Through Von, Stella had learned that Rickie had married a man she’d met at a church social and had already had a child.

She’d have to give Von a call this weekend.

Rickie with a baby. Stella still couldn’t get used to the idea. Rickie married to a man. That Stella couldn’t even fathom. Rickie had never, ever let on that she was contemplating those things.

Stella thrust her fork into the noodles and gave the name on the envelope a harsh glare. Damn her. Damn her for not at least warning me.

A double beep sounded from Stella’s bag.

She reached over to the other side of the couch to get her cell phone. It was Desiree, texting her that she’d gotten home safely from her trip to Rhode Island to visit her parents and that she was going right to bed. Thank God for Desiree.

Where would I be without her?

Stella texted back, “Okay, baby. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” She let out a contented sigh. I’ll have to get her something really special for our one-year anniversary. She finished her dinner, put everything in the dishwasher, and retreated to her bedroom to do some reading.

S

tella worked her mouse furiously, expertly guiding it to perform command after command to set up the pages the way they were supposed to look. The publication date for the financial book she was currently laying out loomed, and she still had numerous tables and charts to format. The columns and columns of numbers were giving her a headache, and she stopped briefly to take an ibuprofen and stretch her hand.

Just as she swallowed a pill, her phone rang.

“Conifer Publishing. This is Stella.”

“Yes, hello. Stella Molari?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“I’m Lucy Jordan. I’m with social services at St. Vincent’s hospital.”

Immediately, the muscles in Stella’s throat

16

Khimairal Ink

constricted. Her mother? Father? Sister? No, it wouldn’t be her sister. They would’ve called Stella’s brother-in-law.

Lucy Jordan’s voice pulled her thoughts back.

“Ms. Molari, we just received a patient in the emergency room, and I’ve been asked to call you on her behalf.”

Her? Oh, God, not Desiree . . . “Who?” Stella was barely able to get the word out.

“Rickie Mullins.”

For a second, Stella wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Rickie? But why are you calling me? I mean, shouldn’t you be calling her husband?”

There was a momentary silence. “Oh, uh, I wasn’t aware she had a husband. We looked through her belongings and only found your name and numbers on an emergency contact card.” Lucy Jordan paused, then added, “She’s unconscious.”

Momentarily disoriented, Stella forgot that a year and a half had passed and it was as if she and Rickie were still together. But just as quickly, the present crashed down on her, and she remembered that Rickie had left her and was married and making babies. And Stella had met Desiree.

Rickie must not have updated her emergency contact card since breaking up with her, Stella figured. What should she do? Rickie was no longer her responsibility, but if she was unconscious and they didn’t know how to contact her family, Stella should go there. It was the right thing to do.

“Um, okay, I’ll be down as soon as I can. Thank you.” Stella hung up, rubbed her forehead, and took a deep breath. She thought she’d finally gotten over Rickie. Then why do my lungs feel like somebody’s squeezing the air out of them?

Stella told her boss that she had to leave early and headed out. On the way to St. Vincent’s, she called Vonnie.

“Von, it’s Stella. Listen, Rickie just showed up at St. Vincent’s—” “Rickie? Your Rickie?”

“Yes, that Rickie.”

“Well, what happened to ‘er?” Von asked.

“I don’t know, she’s unconscious. Didn’t you say she’d moved to Minnesota?”

“Yep, that’s the last I heard. She moved to Minneapolis with her husband about a year ago.”

“Then why is she here?” Stella mumbled, more to herself than Vonnie. “Listen, Von, they only found my name and number in her wallet.

Can you find her husband’s name and number and call me on my cell as soon as you get it?”

“Sure. I hope I can find it.”

“Thanks. Bye.” Stella hung up before she could say anything more. Knowing Von, she would launch into every last detail of what she knew about Rickie’s new life. Stella didn’t really want to hear it. Rickie needed her right now, and she would be there for her. She’d listen to her, bring her toiletries . . . hug her if that’s what she needed. But that’s it. Nothing more. I can’t. I just can’t. It still hurts.

What Stella needed right now was to hear a soothing sound. She flipped open her phone and pressed the number two, which automatically dialed Desiree.

“Hi, baby,” Desiree answered.

The sound of Desiree’s voice made Stella smile, and her insides settled down a bit. She filled Desiree in on what was happening as she continued to the hospital. When she hung up, she was ready to face her past.

W

hen Stella arrived in the ER, she asked for Rickie at the desk. The attendant took a few moments to find the information, then came back to tell her that Rickie was in the intensive care unit. “She’s in critical condition,” the attendant added.

“But what happened?”

The attendant shook her head. “I don’t know.

You’ll have to speak to the doctor. We’ll tell him you’re here. What’s your name?”

“Stella Molari. Lucy Jordan with social services called me.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back. Wait here, please.”

Stella sank into a chair in the waiting room, and after fifteen minutes, a doctor in blue scrubs came through the door. He was young, with smooth skin and dark hair, and for a moment Stella thought that he should be on one of those doctor shows—the young, handsome doctor that all the nurses fell for.

“Miss Molari?”

Stella nodded and stood up.

“I’m Dr. Scotlen. Are you a family member?”

17

Khimairal Ink

Stella hesitated, knowing that if she said no, she may not get all the information she wanted.

“Yes, I’m her sister.” She had been Rickie’s sister once, in that solidarity-in-sisterhood way.

“It’s Mrs. Molari,” she added to explain her different last name.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Molari,” he corrected himself. “Miss Mullins is still unconscious. We ran tests and the only thing we know for certain right now is that she tested positive for barbiturates. There was a high concentration in her blood. It looks like she overdosed.”

Overdosed? Rickie had never been into drugs. What the hell? “When do you think she’ll be conscious?”

“There’s no way to tell. We’ll just have to wait.

In the meantime, you may want to contact other family members. We’ve notified the psychiatric unit. The counselor on duty will come down to see her when she wakes up. Nice meeting you.” Dr. Scotlen patted Stella on the arm and walked off.

So, this was what it had come to for Rickie— the psych ward. Remembering a scene in Miracle on 34th Street, when they were afraid Santa Claus would get committed, Stella smiled dolefully. Clang, clang, Bellevue! She and Rickie had watched that film every Christmas and always recited that line along with the movie. They had done that sort of thing a lot together.

Miss Mullins. The doctor had called Rickie by her maiden name. Oh, right, the old emergency card.

Her cell phone rang, and Stella hurried outside to take the call. It was Vonnie. “Damn, Von, it took you long enough. So what do you have for me?”

Ignoring the jibe, Vonnie launched into her information. “Her husband’s name is Steve Carlson,” she said. “I couldn’t remember it before but that’s it.”

Hmm. A nice, sturdy, respectable, heterosexual name. Figures.

“And they have a son named Christian.”

“Okay, so are they here in a hotel?” Stella asked. “Or did they move back, or what?”

Von paused. “Neither.”

“Huh?” “Well, they’re both back in Minnesota, the husband and kid. I spoke to Steve. It seems that Rickie sort of . . . ran away.”

“Ran away?” Stella pictured Rickie dressed like a little boy, possessions bundled up in a sheet and tied to a long stick slung over her shoulder. She had to shake the lyrics of that old song “Goodbye Cruel World” out of her head.

“Von, she’s thirty-three years old. Running away makes it sound like she’s a little kid.” Then other ideas began slamming into her brain. Was Rickie’s husband abusing her? Did he hit her?

Force her to do things she didn’t want to do?

Rickie had broken her heart but she sure as hell didn’t deserve that. Stella rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “Do you know why she left?”

Vonnie let out a long sigh. “All I know is, the husband said she’s been acting weird and seemed depressed. I’d say it’s post-partum, but he says this started about three months after they were married. He says about four days ago, she disappeared. Left the baby behind and a note.”

“What did the note say?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

After a few more minutes of discussing the possibilities of Rickie’s behavior, they hung up.

Stella went back inside to wait. She didn’t know how long she’d be there, or why she was there at all, but it felt right. In case Rickie woke up, Stella didn’t want her to be alone.

Goodbye cruel world, I’m off to join the circus . . .

F

riday. Stella, exhausted, was glad for the week’s end. She’d stayed at the hospital well into the night, leaving the ER long enough to get a cup of vegetable soup and a cheese sandwich from the cafeteria. You can’t go wrong with a cheese sandwich, she’d figured, but she was now chiding herself for being wrong as she pulled out a bottle of antacids from her desk drawer.

“Probably the damn soup,” she said out loud to herself.

Because Rickie hadn’t woken up, Stella hadn’t been allowed to see her. She’d spent part of the night sleeping in a hard plastic chair until a hand had shaken her awake.

A handsome but simple-looking man, about thirty-two or thirty-three, with blond scruffy hair

18

Khimairal Ink

and ice-blue eyes stood in front of her. She sat up.

“They told me you’re here for Rickie,” he said.

“You must be Stella.”

Stella nodded in that just-woke-up, unableto-speak way. The clock on the wall said 3:00.

Three a.m.

“I’m Steve, Rickie’s husband.”

Sticking out her hand, Stella cleared her throat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Rickie’s talked about you,” he said. He seemed poised to say more but didn’t, so Stella filled him in on what little she knew about Rickie’s condition. She wanted to ask him what had happened to cause Rickie to come running back to New York, but thought better of it. Rickie was not her partner, and what happened between husband and wife was their business. It was not her concern, though the questions gnawed at her. They exchanged cell numbers, and she left the hospital, uncertainty settling in her gut.

If I can just make it through the rest of this day— Stella’s cell phone rang. Swallowing the last of the antacids, she flipped open her phone. It was Steve.

“She’s asking for you,” he said, voice strained.

Thank God. She’s conscious. “I have some work to finish up, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After she hung up with Steve, she worked another hour and left, a strange resentment in her chest at being pulled away from work by a woman who had ripped her heart out and left her to bleed. Especially when Rickie’s chosen life partner was already there for her. Why did Rickie want to see her, anyway? Memories of Rickie’s bombshell announcement, seemingly a lifetime ago, niggled at her brain all the way to the hospital.

When she arrived, Steve was sitting in the waiting room rather than by Rickie’s bedside, surprising Stella. “Steve. How is she?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t giving away any hints of her jumbled feelings.

He looked up at her, expression blank. He seemed to have aged in just a few short hours.

“It looks like she’ll be okay. She asked for you,” he repeated.

Stella shifted uncomfortably. How much had Rickie told him? Standing here in the hospital to see her ex-lover while talking to that ex’s husband was weird. As if she were still Rickie’s partner. She felt like the other woman. Did Steve know what Stella had been to Rickie? Did he even know that his wife used to be a lesbian? A big ol’ butch, at that?

Stella crossed her arms and took a couple of steps back. “Um, okay, I guess I’ll go in.”

Steve nodded vaguely, and Stella stood regarding him, thinking about how strange the last couple of days had been. What if he’d been cruel to Rickie? What had he done to her to make her run away? For all Stella knew, she was standing in front of a batterer. She studied him, trying to recognize any signs of an abuser in his face, in his stance. But she didn’t. She knew full well that an abuser has no specific look, but he just didn’t seem like one to her.

Stella began walking toward the admittance door. “Hey,” Steve called out. She stopped and turned toward him, waiting.

“I did my best,” he said. “I really tried to make her happy.”

How was she supposed to respond to that?

She nodded, turned away, and walked through the door.

Stella put her hand on the curtain and hesitated. She hadn’t seen Rickie in a long time.

A lifetime. It would be bizarre, at the very least.

But when she pulled back the curtain, she only felt sorrow.

Monitors blipped with Rickie’s vital signs, and tubes disappeared into her arm, carrying clear liquid from hanging bags. She looked fragile, so unlike the robust woman who’d left Stella.

Although Stella stood perfectly still, Rickie’s eyes fluttered, as if she sensed her presence.

“Stella,” Rickie croaked, sounding like her throat was parched and irritated from the tube that had been down her throat.

Rickie’s powder-blue gown was spotted with sweat stains and the skin on her hand was puckered by the tape that held the IV needle down. Her hair was longer than she’d worn it while they were together—down to the base of her neck—and now it was plastered to her head.

She looked tired. Not just from weakness or her ordeal, but from exhaustion, maybe, of the soul.

19

Khimairal Ink

Her eyes were not the vibrant hazel streaked with green that Stella remembered. They were dull and lifeless.

Oh, Rickie, what happened to you? “Hi,” Stella whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

She smiled, self-conscious. “I don’t know. It just seems like the thing to do in a hospital.”

Rickie’s lips curved up on one side. “You were always too concerned with being respectful.”

Stella approached the bed, wondering what questions would be okay to ask. What should I say? Putting her hand on Rickie’s—the one without the IV—she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Rickie spoke for her.

“It’s a long story,” she said, turning away from Stella’s gaze.

“Tell me.”

Rickie’s jaw tightened as she tried, unsuccessfully, to keep tears from rolling down her temples to the pillow.

Stella recognized every anguished expression on Rickie’s face. Rickie could tell her an epic tale without ever uttering a word.

“Did Steve hurt you?”

Perplexity flitted through Rickie’s eyes as she turned to face Stella. “What?” Then her expression smoothed in understanding. “No, baby, he never hurt me.”

Baby? In Rickie’s weakened state, she must be forgetting her circumstances, Stella thought.

Hearing Rickie call her “baby” both warmed and angered her. Rickie had always been a thoughtful, gentle partner, and Stella remembered their time together fondly despite herself. But Rickie had no right to call her anything endearing now.

She’d given up that right to become June Cleaver.

Stella forced herself to relax. Rickie was sick and didn’t know what she was saying. Stella didn’t ask again. If Rickie wanted to tell her, she would.

Rickie swallowed hard. Stella wasn’t sure if it was from a dry throat or from holding back sobs.

Probably both.

Rickie patted the mattress with both hands and looked from one side to the other.

“What are you looking for?” Stella asked.

“Remote.”

Stella found it. “What do you want to do?”

“Sit up.”

Stella pressed several buttons until she figured out which controlled the back half of the bed. Slowly, the bed rose until Rickie was sitting up. The bed continued moving. The button had gotten stuck, and the bed was now threatening to fold Rickie in half.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Stella muttered, frantically pressing all the buttons. At last, she pressed the correct button, and the bed stopped moving.

She looked at Rickie, who was laughing, weakly but heartily. She was hunched over with the mattress flopped onto her back.

Alarmed at first, Stella started giggling, too.

“That’s the first time I’ve laughed like that in a long time,” Rickie finally said. She had always been easy with laughter. It was a good sound.

Laughing as well, Stella put the remote down and said, “The bed must be really old. And broken. I don’t think it’s supposed to do that.”

Then she quickly composed herself. As if on cue, Rickie stopped smiling and answered the unasked question in Stella’s eyes.

“I made a huge mistake,” Rickie said, sounding like a sad child.

Stella stepped closer and put her hands on the safety rails. “Did you do this on purpose?”

Closing her eyes, Rickie took a deep breath.

“That’s not what I meant.” When she tilted her head up, it caused her gown to slide down a bit, revealing a bony neckline. Stella was shocked at how thin Rickie was.

“I made a mistake leaving you,” Rickie said, still blindly looking skyward.

A tiny bit of vindication crept into Stella’s heart that she had to acknowledge. Mixed with betrayal, it was a distasteful concoction. Stella focused on the window, next to Rickie’s bed and grayed with a combination of privacy screening and outside filth. But the top half had been pulled open, and she could see clear blue sky cushioning the tops of old brick buildings housing restaurants and shops. The sun would be setting soon. She bit her lip, knowing where this conversation was headed. It wasn’t good.

“Stella, I want to come home.”

The stabbing sensation Stella felt in her stomach made her realize she wasn’t as over Rickie as she’d thought. But it was far too late.

There was no going back.

“Rickie, you’re married.”

20

Khimairal Ink

“It was a mistake. But by the time I realized it, I was pregnant so I tried to make it work.” The hollowness in her voice echoed desperation and remorse. “I told myself that I just needed time to adjust. But I never did.”

The despair twisting Rickie’s features broke Stella’s heart. Despite everything that had happened between them, she did still love her.

“Rickie—” “Look, I know it’s asking a lot, and you’re probably with someone—I just wanted you to know, in case there’s any chance.”

Stella’s heart ached. If she’d heard those words a year and a half ago, she would have taken Rickie back. But it was too late. With Desiree’s help, she’d closed the wound Rickie had left. It would always be sore, but she’d had no choice but to heal, as much as she could.

“Rickie, I met someone. Her name’s Desiree and . . . well . . . we’re very happy,” Stella said gently.

Rickie quirked one side of her mouth ruefully.

“I knew you wouldn’t be single for long. You’re too good of a catch.”

Stella looked at Rickie’s pale hands and noticed that the ring Stella had given her—the one from the matching set they had both worn— still had a place on her hand. Not her ring finger on her left hand but on her right hand. The little diamonds looked clouded and mucky, as if she wore it to do even the most menial of tasks.

“Why did you come back to New York?”

Rickie looked out at the darkening sky, streaked with pink ribbons. “I told you. I want to come home.”

“You can’t undo what you’ve done. Besides, you have a child now.”

Rickie reached for Stella’s hand and squeezed two of her fingers. “I know. I just needed to let you know that.” She swallowed hard. “You’re the only person I could ever count on. And I threw you away.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Her flaring nostrils told Stella that she was trying hard not to burst into tears.

“You made your decision, Rickie. There’s no turning back. You and I have separate lives now.” Stella bent over to kiss Rickie’s forehead, sadness mixed with something she’d hadn’t realized she’d been missing until now: closure.

“I wish you all the happiness you can find,”

Stella whispered, her own tears hot in her eyes.

“I hope you make the right decisions for yourself and that you can live with them.”

Stella walked out of the room, palming her cell phone. The second she stepped outside, she flipped it open and called Desiree. She hadn’t seen her in five days and she really needed to be with her, to remind her that she had a happy future to look forward to.

“Hi, sweetie. Meet me at my place in twenty minutes?”

A

waitress came over with menus as soon as Stella sat down at the sidewalk table in Soho. Rickie had already ordered coffee and was halfway through. The waitress asked Stella if she could get her coffee, too, as she topped off Rickie’s cup.

“Yes, please.” Stella took the menu but her attention was on Rickie, who looked older than her years. It wasn’t that her skin sagged or that she had circles under her eyes. On the contrary, she looked exceptionally healthy for someone who had overdosed only five months before.

“Hi,” Stella said. “Sorry I’m late. Were you waiting long?”

“No, I just got here, like, five minutes ago,” Rickie said with a chuckle. “Christian decided he wanted to redecorate the kitchen with his oatmeal.”

Rickie sounded light and cheerful, but Stella saw an emptiness in the hazel eyes that had once glinted with life.

Stella opened the laminated menu and glanced at its contents. She’d eaten here before and knew what she wanted. After she closed the menu, she noticed Rickie staring at Stella’s hand, at the platinum ring, etched with diamond cuts in a vine pattern. It adorned the finger that used to bear Rickie’s ring.

Self-consciously, Stella put her hand down in her lap. “How are you doing?” she asked, hoping to deflect the moment.

Before Rickie could answer, their waitress returned with Stella’s coffee. Stella ordered the French toast, Rickie the bagels and lox.

“I’m okay.” Rickie smiled. “Nothing’s the same, though.” Her smile faded.

A blast of sympathy shot through Stella’s

21

Khimairal Ink

core. Rickie had just been trying to make the right choices. Unfortunately, she hadn’t.

Rickie’s hands were on the table, fumbling with the sugar packets. Stella covered them with her own. “You have Christian.”

A small light twinkled in Rickie’s eyes. “I know.

He’s a great kid. I’m so lucky to have him.” Then, looking at Stella, she added, “But nothing will ever be the same again.”

Stella knew exactly what she meant. After Rickie had left her, everything was different.

Songs, movies, books, TV shows, all the things they’d shared and enjoyed together, argued over, quoted from, laughed about, made running jokes out of—they suddenly meant nothing. No, rather, they meant something else. Instead of being interesting, funny, or poignant, they were just painful. Painful memories of a life they’d once worked hard to build.

Little things came up as reminders. The song that had been theirs seemed to be on the radio stations’ rotations a lot more than before. Whenever she watched a movie or show, she’d had to fight the urge to turn and make a sarcastic quip that she knew Rickie would get and laugh about. It became too much to keep turning and finding an empty place on her sofa. It had taken Stella a long time to stop dredging up memories and emotions.

“No,” Stella said, picking at her French toast.

“Nothing will ever be the same. It can’t be. But I have to believe that everything happens for a reason.”

“You don’t believe that people make mistakes?”

“Of course I do. But even mistakes can— should—have a purpose. We’re in this life to learn.”

Rickie squinted at her. “When did you become so philosophical?”

“When you left me. It was either that or go nuts.”

Absently poking the lox on the bagel with her knife, Rickie furrowed her brows. “You know I’ll always love you, right?”

Stella looked up from her toast, a piece impaled on her fork dripping with maple syrup.

It was not surprising that their relationship had come full circle. They’d once been one another’s shield, protecting each other from the world.

And she somehow knew that they’d continue fighting to keep each other safe, if not as lovers, then as friends.

“So you’ve said,” Stella said softly. Rickie’s return to New York had been a stick poking at her wound, but it also meant having Rickie in her life again. She remembered once telling Von, soon after the breakup, that after all she and Rickie had meant to each other, her world was incomplete without Rickie. She’d been able to pull herself together and meet someone new, but Rickie would always be a part of her, and in that she took some comfort.

Rickie took a bite of her bagel and chewed as she fixed her coffee. Stella smiled and ate her toast.

22

Khimairal Ink

Read about the adventures of Torri and Kai. Friends in High Place the first book of the Far Seek Chronicles

Mindancer Press

http://mindancerpress.wordpress.com/books/friends-in-high-places/

23

I

Khimairal Ink

t was early autumn, and Jenny was too warm.

She kicked at the heavy blanket until it pooled at the foot of the bed. The room smelled of port wine and chocolate raspberries, and her clothes were damp with sweat. Jenny never liked fortified wines; she didn’t like the way they burned after swallowing. Wine should be wine and liquor should be liquor. But last week Leah had let her splurge on a $25 bottle of Pinot Grigio, so it was her turn to concede.

Beside her, Leah muttered something that sleep blurred into nothing. Through the thin walls, Jenny could hear the drone of late-night infomercials next door—a slow steady voice trying to sell Civil War DVDs. She sighed, lifted Leah’s arm from around her waist, and slid off the bed. Reaching for the window, she tugged at the handle; it opened with the sound of peeling rubber. The cool air rushed in, bearing the soft hint of impending rain. She inhaled deeply and shook her head. Her overlapping thoughts throbbed against her temples, devoid of clarity.

Outside, a car horn blared and a voice cursed back.

The moonlight, dimmed by cloud cover, washed through the window and framed the words on the opposite wall: “You must be the change you want to see in the world,” painted in black with a fat brush. Gandhi. It was the first thing they had put on the wall, twenty-one years old and fresh out of college. Neither of them truly believed that they had much change to give, but Jenny had hoped that they would grow into it. Five years later and the words still seemed meaningless. They still lived in the same apartment where the grout between bathroom tiles was dark with mold, too deep to reach with a

sponge. The kitchen was so small that they had to move the microwave to the living room, and they had to bind the smoke detectors in black garbage bags to keep the alarm from sounding when they cooked.

Next to Ghandi was another set of words in a dark, blood-bruise red: “Let my lusts be my ruin, then, since all else is a fake and a mockery.” Hart Crane. And beneath that, in bright blue, curling calligraphy pen, “All you need is love.” The Beatles. Over the years, the words have multiplied; the attitudes have fluctuated, rotated, and reversed, collecting in a strange amalgamation of beliefs and mantras. There was ink of every shade and thick, acrylic paint that left dollops of color at the bottom of each letter. There were phrases written straight, slanted, or arced in small circles. Leah added a key line from each of her shows, and Jenny applied fresh paint for her each favorite book. Once Leah tried, with a bold Sharpie, to add a few phrases from Jenny’s first published story—printed in LA’s new literary journal, Swink. The next day, Jenny dipped a brush in white paint and swabbed coat upon coat until the quote disappeared. When Leah returned from work, she touched a finger to the wet paint and asked why.

“It’s just . . . not ready,” Jenny tried to explain.

Seeing her words in dried ink, beneath Plath and above Oates, felt wrong. The permanence of the wall made it seem final and it wasn’t. She felt that same wrongness tonight—the sense of immortalizing something incomplete—staring at the pair of $100 rings that neither of them thought were perfect. The simple bands rested on the nightstand, stacked and waiting for tomorrow.

24

Khimairal Ink

Jenny had always been a serial monogamist, and she could have pictured herself married at twenty-six, but she never thought she’d be doing it at 1:40 on a Wednesday afternoon. She never thought it would be slotted between lunch and Leah’s dress rehearsal. Two weeks ago, they watched with horror as NBC scrolled the latest voter opinion poll beneath the weekly weather update. The anchors, more preoccupied by the presidential platforms, bantered with a sick irony about “progress” as Leah chewed at her nails and Jenny ground her teeth. They switched the channel to find clips of gay couples jumbled outside courthouses, scraping together rushed weddings before the election. With her slender legs folded over Jenny’s lap, Leah turned toward her and asked, “Well . . . should we?”

Should we, Jenny thought, like should we go to the movies or should we order pizza. Should we get port wine or white wine. Should we, like it was unimportant.

Jenny rummaged between the mattress and the wall for her shirt. She slipped it over her head and sat back on the bed. She trailed the back of her index finger along Leah’s spine. Jenny loved its graceful arc—the way it seemed to cascade from her shoulders to the small of her back. If she simplified Leah’s body, pictured it as just the subtle lines formed by her figure, Jenny imagined that it would resemble one of those abstract sculptures meant to represent water in motion. It was what gave her every movement a sense of fluidity—both on and off the stage.

Jenny couldn’t help but think of how awkward she must seem by comparison, with her stick body that had never fully grown into its limbs.

After seven years, Jenny had grown accustomed to how men stared at Leah—how men flirted either not knowing or not caring that the two of them were together. Initially it made her worry, or worse, it made her angry and small. But by now, Jenny had learned to accept it. In fact, something in her, something underdeveloped and insecure, was consoled by with a petty sense of victory—especially when Leah squeezed closer to her to dissuade unwanted advances.

T

heir last couple of weeks had been consumed by a series of ill-managed, panicked wedding arrangements. They emailed invitations, rushing back to the computer every few hours for a forgotten detail. To simplify things, they decided to combine the ceremony and the reception into one small gathering. It would be hosted by Letterhead—the independent bookstore where Jenny worked when she wasn’t writing the stories that made no money. The plan was for Jenny to close the store at 1:00, push all the tables to the walls and stack the books beneath the tables. She would set out folding chairs in neat rows, and Leah would pick up the cake on the way over. That may have secretly been Jenny’s favorite part of these arrangements—the cake. Three heavenly layers of chocolate created by a bakery that carried same-sex figures for cake toppings.

They had to call a sister of a friend of a distant college memory who was a judge in San Francisco to come down and officiate. Half of their closer relations were too far away to attend on such short notice. Most of Jenny’s family lived in Toronto and could not afford the trip, while the majority of Leah’s strictly Roman-Catholic family simply never responded to the invitations. Leah had sent them on the principle that they should know, if nothing else. She never expected any replies except for a few quoted passages from the Bible. In fact, her aunt replied with a YouTube link for a sermon on Leviticus 18:22. Only Leah’s father would be attending, at which she remarked, “God I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees I’m not even wearing white.”

Jenny laughed and answered, “Babe, it’s been a very long time since you could have worn white.”

Their clothes for tomorrow were folded neatly atop the compact, wooden desk in the corner: dark jeans and a red collared shirt for Jenny, a short dress for Leah. Anything formal would have made a mockery of their bare bones ceremony.

“Why don’t you at least wear a nice dress?”

Jenny’s mother had asked, which reminded her of a quote she enjoyed but thought too pedestrian to put on the wall: “I can’t help looking gay. I put on a dress and people say, ‘Who’s the dyke in the dress?’” Karen Ripley.

25

Khimairal Ink

When they joined the long queue outside the city clerk’s office, Jenny felt a momentary, ungrounded fear that they would never reach the end, that they would stand in line until the ballots closed and marriage became a lost privilege and a dream. But they remained, waiting four hours to fill out forms labeled “Party A” and “Party B” instead of Bride and Groom. That made her smile.

On the way back out, they saw five people standing on the concrete steps holding picket signs: “God will judge you,” and “No pride in shame.” There was a boy, no more than ten years old, dressed in a sandwich board reading “Repent or Perish.”

Leah must have felt Jenny tense because she pulled her close. “Come on, honey, we’re done.” Directly afterwards, Jenny made an impulse buy on a t-shirt that said, “Can I vote on your marriage?” which she hadn’t worn since.

Leah was stronger than Jenny. If Leah were a writer, she would paint her words up on the wall. Jenny had always known this, but thought there would be time for her to grow, to fix this imbalance in their relationship. That was why, though they had mentioned marriage before, Jenny had always hinted that she needed more time. She was waiting until she could look at Leah and feel an equal.

A

s college students on their third date, Leah suggested that they stop by a small park after dinner. It was one of the worst nights of the winter. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and Jenny would have much preferred a blanket and coffee, but date number three was too early for objections. They passed joggers, a blacktop basketball game, and couples intertwined. Jenny smiled nervously because she didn’t know the first move and that first kiss seemed too long ago to be real. Leah reached for her hand. When they found a corner of their own, they settled on a bench. For the next hour, they talked softly and touched lightly until heavy boots crushed the grass behind them.

They turned to see a policeman. His heavy frame pushed at the buttons of his shirt, and his left hand gripped the handle of his club.

Immediately, Jenny withdrew her hand, and felt

guilty when Leah drummed her fingers against the bench.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said in a voice that delighted to say it.

Leah raised a brow and asked, “Why?” His lips curved to a slow smile. “Public indecency. You’re disturbing the other people.”

With only a slight pause, Leah rose to leave.

Jenny stayed seated. Months later, when they finally discussed it, Leah smiled and pressed her lips to Jenny’s temple. “People like that, they’re just looking to get a rise out of you. Why let them?”

It wasn’t in Jenny’s nature to make scenes.

She abhorred talking to strangers, let alone arguing with them. But it was date three, and she thought she had something to prove. She stood, head bent back to see him, though she could not look him in the eye. Staring down his mustache, she asked, “Who? There’s no one around.”

“We got complaints,” he said.

“About what?”

“Said you were disturbing the peace.”

“We were just sitting here.”

“Just sitting?” He laughed, “Sure you weren’t doing anything else?”

Jenny paused, mouth open. Leah gently reached for her shoulder. “It’s okay, Jenny, really. We can go somewhere else.”

Jenny frowned and turned to go.

“Hang on,” he said, “Don’t think I’m just going to let you run off.”

Both girls stopped.

“If I turn around right now, you’re just going to stick around here, and I’m going to have to come back because someone else called to complain,” he said.

“We’re leaving,” Leah insisted, turning again.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. I’m going to have to call you an escort.”

“To go two blocks?” Jenny asked, jaw tight.

“Just for the safety of the neighborhood.”

And then Jenny spoke without thinking. In retrospect, it reminded her of another pedestrian quote: “Word vomit,” Lindsay Lohan, Mean Girls.

“Bullshit,” she said, eyes turned to his, nails biting into the palm of her hand.

26

Khimairal Ink

His smile faded. He reached for his handcuffs and told Jenny to turn around. With his coarse fingers tight around her wrists, he twisted her arms behind her back, and she felt the cold metal click into place. Remembering it now, Jenny could only picture Leah’s eyes, wide with shock and regret.

“A night in jail can teach you some respect,” he said, and when she didn’t respond, he breathed into her ear, “You should have left when I told you to.”

Courage lost and shivering within his grip, Jenny nearly gagged on her own apologies, tears pouring in wet streaks that seeped into her collar. She wished desperately that Leah hadn’t been there to see it. When he was satisfied with her groveling, he undid the handcuffs and walked away. Jenny rubbed at her wrists, face flushed and burning. She scraped her sleeve against her eyes and nose. After he turned the corner, Leah reached again for her hand.

T

omorrow, after the wedding, they would return to this same room. No wedding night in a cushy hotel, no honeymoon in a distant, exotic location. Jenny had asked if they were sure, if Leah didn’t want something bigger, something less understated. Leah laughed and set her forehead against Jenny’s, “As long as I have you, what else do I need?”

Jenny could not find the courage to say that, while she did not need anything more, she had hoped for more. She had hoped for a day when she could afford the perfect ring and present it, all confidence, on bended knee. A day when she could string together all the right words. A day when she could take Leah to a pocket of the world without cell phones, deadlines, or call

times and indulge in the taste of her skin. Most importantly, Jenny had hoped that they could wait—until she was as strong as Leah, until she could walk past the picket signs untouched, until she could dip a thick brush in black paint and tell her story in her own words.

The wind was picking up; it rattled the window and startled Jenny from her thoughts.

She shook her head to clear it. Lightning flared and illuminated the room in intermittent bursts.

Beneath the Beatles, there was a patch of the wall where the textured stucco faded to smoothed paint—where white upon white filled the shallow gaps in the rough pattern. As she moved closer, Jenny saw that Leah’s uneven, angled script showed faintly through the faded layers. She reached out and traced where the paint had trickled down and gathered in a thin, slick line, starting beneath the “y” in Jenny Reid.

Leah finally stirred. She groped at the empty pillow beside her and rolled onto her back.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?” Jenny looked down, lifting Leah’s hand and pressing her lips to her palm.

“Come back. It’s cold.”

Jenny nodded and pushed the window shut, making sure to lock the handle in place. After replacing the blanket, she slid slowly down beside Leah and fit their bodies together. She lay still and listened as the rain started, tapping at the pipes and dripping along the window frame.

The growing storm drowned out the sounds of car horns and tires. It chased people off the streets and behind closed doors. In the silence, between beats of thunder, Jenny gathered her lover in her arms. She felt heat ripple between them, and braced herself for sleep.

27

Khimairal Ink

Carlisle Crowley is a striking, beautiful vampire hell-bent on living her undead life to the fullest.

The last thing she needs hanging around her is Bronwyn Hunter, a seventeen-year-old love-struck human girl. When Crowley’s dark and mysterious past comes back to haunt her, the pair embark on a journey of self discovery that tests their relationship to the limit.

Knight Predator Jordan Falconer Mindancer Press http://bedazzledink.com/?page_id=207

From Nuance Books . . .

Year’s Best Lesbian Fiction 2008 The first annual collection of the Best lesbian short stories published in 2008 http://bedazzledink.com/?page_id=150

Lavender Ink: Writing and Selling Lesbian Fiction

By Fran Walker, L-J Baker, Nann Dunne, Sacchi Green & Andi Marquette “Hooray for publishing this book!” -- Mark Leach, Now Voyager Bookstore, Provincetown, MA http://bedazzledink.com/?page_id=152

28

I

Khimairal Ink

started “spying” on my daughter, as she put it, soon after she had her first period.

The old closeness between us was gone, and I knew she wasn’t telling me everything. I was desperate.

I had never wanted to be a controlling mother.

I just wanted Katie to be safe and surrounded by people who cared about her. I couldn’t trust her new friends. She obviously had no idea what type of reaction her budding curves and sweet face could inspire in a teenage boy. Or another girl.

“Mom, don’t be mad.” This seemed to be Katie’s usual opening line, ever since she had started the current school year. This time, her friend Sarah had pierced her ears, and the little steel studs looked remarkably even. Even still, my heart jumped into my throat.

“Katie, do you know how dangerous it is to let some untrained person do that to you? I hope she used an antiseptic, because otherwise you’re guaranteed to get an infection.” I heard my motherly voice coming out of my mouth in an endless stream while Katie rolled her eyes at me as I had done at my mother a generation before. I wanted to say, “You’re beautiful and it scares me,” but what good would that have done?

Having her father around would have done more harm than good. He was a drinking man who had always blamed me for letting our child grow as wild as a dandelion, even when she was a baby. I had moved out with Katie when she was four. Her father had largely left us alone since he had remarried three years later.

“Anyway, I’m going out with Sarah and Lindsey and them tomorrow, so I’m telling you

now, Mom. I always tell you where I’m going.”

This was the voice of my child, sounding so arch, so incredibly patronizing. Underneath that tone, though, I could hear what she wouldn’t say: I love you, Mom, and I won’t get into any serious trouble. Trust me.

“It’s a school night,” I reminded her. “Don’t you have homework?”

Katie sighed, mimicking the patience of an indulgent parent with a demanding child. “I’ll do it before I go, Mom. We’re just going for coffee.

It’s no big deal.”

I was secretly amazed at the number of friends whose names kept popping up in her conversations. At her age, I had been shy, bookish and tormented with pimples. Katie seemed to attract admirers like a spring flower attracting birds and bees, thus proving—what?

That I had been more seductive than I (or anyone else) knew? That every generation fulfills the dreams of the one before?

I knew that Katie kept a diary because I had given it to her, and she told me she liked to write in it. I could guess that it was probably in a bureau drawer with other precious trinkets. I wasn’t seriously tempted to look for it until the week of the pierced ears and the punk haircut.

What Lindsey did to Katie’s hair was the last straw. Young Lindsey, whose parents obviously tolerated her retro 1980s style and an older son who was on probation for breaking-andentering, aspired to be a hairdresser. Her best buddies, including my Katie, were willing to be her guinea pigs. Katie came home from a sleepover on a quiet Sunday morning looking like a refugee from another planet.

My daughter’s thick, formerly shoulder-length

29

Khimairal Ink

chestnut hair was completely shaved in the back and gelled into spikes in the front, except for one long, braided strand. And the hair was green, which made it look like a badly-mowed lawn.

The next day, I searched Katie’s messy room for evidence: dope, condoms, love notes, whatever I could find. And that revealing diary.

I felt guilty, but not enough to withdraw. I rummaged through girlish underwear, including a contraband red thong, feeling like an intruder.

I couldn’t help wondering if Lindsey’s brother had similar methods, and if the search for other people’s valuables turned him on.

The diary was in her top drawer with tights, hair accessories, and little plastic characters from recent movies. “Sarah told me she likes Jason today in algebra but I know he likes Michelle so I told her she could find someone better.” Nothing too shocking there, even though this teenage plot told in vague pronouns had the makings of a Jane Austen novel. I read on. “Mom thinks I’m still a child, but she’s not as bad as Talisa’s mom. I don’t know why she doesn’t run away.” It warmed me to know that Katie didn’t think I was the World’s Worst Mother. Not yet.

Her diary was all about relationships: girl-togirl, girl-to-teacher, girl-to-parent, girl-to-world.

References to boys were sprinkled throughout like glitter dust, but the boys she actually knew sounded no more real than the rock stars and actors whose personae signified Romance to her.

I was relieved not to find any incriminating confessions, or at least that was what I told myself. I carefully left everything in Katie’s room where I had found it. Even still, guilt seethed in me like persistent heartburn.

Katie had her diary and her friends. I needed someone to talk to.

Up to this point, I had avoided making friends with anyone I worked with. I knew that too much honesty could completely blow the image I tried to maintain at work, and I couldn’t afford to lose my job. As it turned out, though, Amanda gave me an invitation I couldn’t resist.

She was the quirky, red-haired art historian who often came into the art gallery where I was director’s assistant, or de facto office manager.

Rumor had it that Amanda came from Old Money and didn’t really need the salary she earned in a

teaching position at the university or the stingy amounts we paid her out of our modest budget to act as an advisor for our big shows.

I could believe that Amanda had grown up in a world of privilege and awareness of the Next Big Trend, but I didn’t think that gave the gallery a right to underpay her. My vague sense of guilt about that prompted me to stay polite whenever she dropped an unexpected remark on me. By this time, I was almost shock-proof.

“Mary, the Rasmussen exhibit looks fabulous,” she told me, breezing up to my desk and stroking my nearest hand before I could pull it away. “You’ve got them hung in the right order.”

I looked at her, waiting for the explanation.

“Rasmussen’s paintings tell the story of her life if you see them in chronological order, but galleries don’t always get it. You can see her spiraling downhill before the end.”

I knew the basic facts about the painter Erica Rasmussen: she had had an affair with her married art instructor from the 1970s to the 1990s. He had finally divorced his wife, then his other mistress had come to Erica’s apartment to scare her off. When Erica confronted the man, he dumped her. She died of a drug overdose the following week. It was a cautionary tale.

The last few paintings that Rasmussen had ever made were awash in violent colors and shapes. They disturbed me.

“Men are dogs,” I said. “I wonder why she didn’t figure him out sooner. She knew him long enough.”

Amanda sighed dramatically. “Ah, yes. The moth should have closed her eyes to the flame.”

She actually planted her shapely butt, encased in tight black pants, on the edge of my desk. “No one ever really knows anyone else. Not really.”

She looked at me until I looked away. “You’re so sensible and well-organized. You must be a good mother. Aren’t you ever tempted to do something reckless, Mary? Like go for a joyride with someone you know isn’t good for you?”

An image of myself in a convertible with the top down, hair streaming in the wind, flashed into my mind. At first, I was afraid to notice who was driving. Then I realized it was Amanda.

“As a teenager, sure,” I told her. “It’s what they do. Now I have a teenage daughter in the

30

Khimairal Ink

house, and her social life scares the hell out of me. I already did the wild and crazy by hooking up with her dad and having her. Now I have to keep her from ruining her life, if I can. It keeps me busy.”

“Too busy for a social life of your own? You need to get out more, girlfriend.” Amanda wriggled her ass. “It’s almost closing time. Why not come have a drink with me? I promise not to keep you out late.”

It was against my better judgment, but her presence was strangely fascinating. I could smell the fragrance of her hair and some earthier scent that wafted from the hottest, moistest parts of her. I told myself that having a fast drink with a woman I knew was so much safer than finding men on the internet (which I wouldn’t do anyway) that I had nothing to fear.

Amanda’s raised eyebrows dared me to tell her what I knew about danger and risk and the desire that overcomes common sense. And I really wanted a second opinion on Katie’s hair—preferably from an independent woman who knew something about style.

Amanda took me to a dimly-lit lounge full of green plants, like a jungle at dusk. The intimate groupings of chairs and tables amid the shrubbery gave an illusion of privacy, but I could hear the buzz of numerous conversations.

“What do you like to drink, Mary?” she asked in a voice ripe with innuendo.

“Excuse me a minute. I have to go make a phone call.” I pulled my cell phone out of my purse on my way to the women’s washroom, which I seemed to find by instinct.

To be assured of silence at my end, I entered a stall. “Katie? Honey, I’ll be a little late. I’m having coffee with someone I work with.”

“Mom, do you want me to be home alone?

What am I supposed to have for supper?”

“If you take the hamburger out of the freezer—” “Why do you have to go out with someone you see all day, Mom? “ She didn’t pause long enough to let me answer. “I know it’s good for people your age to have a social life, but you have to be careful. Why is this guy interested in you?”

“She’s a woman, Katie, and I don’t see her all day. Honey, I’ll be fine. I’ll be home by

six-thirty. You know how to make spaghetti, don’t you?”

“You showed me, Mom, but I don’t want to cook and eat by myself! That’s really lame. Can I—” “No, honey, you can’t. I’ll see you later.”

My own image confronted me in the mirror of the washroom. I looked conservative, dressed in a suit that skimmed my body. My skin looked pale and tired under the harsh light, but my dark eyes showed energy. My wavy brown hair looked wind-blown, and it gave me a touch of wildness.

There was still something sexy about me, after all my years of motherhood, or maybe because of them. I remembered reading somewhere that your alter ego is the stranger who looks back at you from the mirror. Or maybe it’s the stranger who glares back at you from the eyes of your resentful child. I decided to ponder these notions further when no one was waiting to chat with me.

There were possibilities in my life that I hadn’t had time to consider before. “Red wine,” I told Amanda, sliding into my seat. “Something full-bodied.” I tried to take on the posture and facial expression of a connoisseuse, a knowledgeable woman who enjoys all the pleasures of the senses.

A waitress came to take our order, and Amanda ordered a kind of wine I had never heard of before. She gave me a look of fond amusement. “Is your daughter all right?”

“She’s pouting, but she knows how to cook for herself. She’ll be safe as long as she doesn’t invite any of her friends over.”

“If she’s like you, she must be popular.”

Amanda beamed at me. The low neckline of her empire-waist blouse showed cleavage, and it was hard for me to keep my eyes away from it while we were both seated.

I spread my gaze around the room. “She’s not like me. She’s a whole other person. You wouldn’t believe what she let a friend do to her last week.”

Did Amanda, caretaker of the tragic life of Erica Rasmussen, really want to hear the kitchen-sink drama of my Katie’s relationships?

At that moment, I didn’t care. I needed a witness.

31

Khimairal Ink

I told Amanda the story of Katie’s green hair, trying to make it as funny as possible. Amanda laughed as though tickled to the core.

“Don’t worry, Mary. Some kids do a lot worse.

When I was that age—well, we can save that for another day. Your daughter is very lucky to have a mother who cares what happens to her.”

I couldn’t stand it. “I started reading her diary after that episode. I gave her that diary so she could keep her own secrets, but I went through her bureau drawers to find it, and I read it.” Mea culpa, I have sinned.

Amanda looked smug, as though she had found my own hidden diary. “I bet it’s a page-turner.”

“Oh, it is. Teenagers live in their own world, with their own language and culture. I know I’m invading her privacy, but I wish she would just tell me what’s going on in her life. I feel shut out.”

“Poor Mary. All children break their mother’s hearts sooner or later. If you can tough out this phase, I’m sure you’re the one she’ll always turn to for help when she needs it.” I wondered whether Erica Rasmussen had turned to her mother for help, or if she was too afraid of being lectured and blamed.

“I’d like to meet your daughter some time.”

Amanda smiled. “You can read my high school diaries if you’d like.” She leaned forward to make this offer, as though offering me her breasts as well. “I dumped a lot on my parents when I was sixteen, then when I was eighteen. After that, I was pretty much on my own.”

It came to me that Amanda’s parents had probably wanted her to marry well and continue the family dynasty. Visions of sexual rebellion floated through my mind before I could censor them out.

“Amanda, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for months, girlfriend! You’re a tough nut to crack.

I really want to know you better. Are you up for that or not?”

I smiled, showing her my teeth. “Um. It’s against my policy to date anyone I work with, but—yes, I’m willing to try it. With you. We should go out again when I have more time to spend.”

Amanda removed my hand from the stem of the wineglass I was clutching, opened my palm,

and kissed it slowly. The sensation was a shock to me. The heat of her mouth went right from the sensitive skin of my palm to my neglected crotch, and I felt an orgasm sneaking up on my clit.

Amanda let her eyes travel slowly up from my waist to my well-covered breasts to my chin, my hair, and my eyes. “You won’t regret it, baby.”

Oh. My. God. The electricity that flew from her to me was like lightning, like a short in the wiring of the old house I lived in, like a jolt of understanding. Any lame beliefs I might have had about the sexual incompatibility of two women melted away like cheap plastic in an oven.

Like Cinderella, I had to rush home. I was already late. But now I had a wonderful reason to wake up and go to work each morning, aside from my need for a regular paycheck.

Katie opened the door before I could turn my key in the lock. She reminded me of a fierce kitten with its fur standing on end. “Mom, you’re incredibly late. I made spaghetti but I didn’t want to eat until you came home. I’m really hungry.

Have you been drinking alcohol?”

“Just a glass of wine, honey. I’m not drunk.”

“I hope you weren’t driving.”

“You don’t need to supervise me, Katie. I got home safe and sound.” I busied myself setting out forks and spoons and dishing soggy spaghetti noodles onto plates. The sauce was cold and hard, so I added water and turned on a burner to warm it instead of nuking it in the microwave.

“Did the other lady pay?”

“For the wine? Yes, it was her treat.”

“Is she your boss at the art gallery?”

“No, she’s an art historian. I’ll bring her over some time so you can meet her. She knows a lot about art because she got a good education.”

And never mind what else she did, I thought.

Katie seemed mollified for the moment. She stayed in her room for the rest of the evening, and I could hear gusts of a long telephone conversation through her door. The atmosphere in our house settled into a fragile calm.

Katie’s hair grew out in the following weeks, to my relief. Her dates with friends continued to be tribal takeovers of targeted restaurants, coffee shops, and family homes. Her absences

32

Khimairal Ink

gave me a chance to read her diary without getting caught.

A boy named Zachary, newly arrived from Montreal, appeared in the ongoing chronicle of Katie’s life. He rode a motorcycle, knew karate, and led a fledgling Celtic band. According to Lindsey, he also did cocaine.

Zachary showed up more often in Katie’s diary entries: “Zach talked to me today,” and “Zach at The Peach Pit!” She seemed to be in the grip of a full-fledged crush.

“It could be worse,” Amanda said philosophically when I told her.

“What, you mean my kid could have found a junkie with AIDS or a pimp with a prison record?

Should I be grateful it’s not that bad?”

“There’s not much you can do about it, Mary,” she pointed out. “If you try to keep her locked up, she’ll sneak out. Believe me.” I did.

Katie seemed to have no idea that males were not the only ones she could date. And I could hardly tell her that young love could appear in forms she didn’t expect.

One night, I dreamed about Erica Rasmussen, who looked too much like Katie for my comfort, yet there was also a whiff of Amanda about her.

Her pain filled the cramped, cluttered space of her apartment, where her canvases were propped on tables and against walls, their intense reds and purples dominating her beige walls and oak-blond furniture.

A young woman in black lipstick and black clothing held together with safety pins was standing in the entranceway, waiting for something. Her look was somewhere between punk and goth, somewhere between Raggedy Ann and the Grim Reaper.

“Why are you doing this?” yelled Erica. “You don’t really want him. You’re just a selfish bitch.

You want to wreck something you don’t understand.”

“Like you?” The child-woman sneered. “Would you have snuck around with him all these years if he wasn’t married? What does that make you?”

The air between them was electric. Erica was breathing so hard that her breasts jiggled steadily inside her clingy, bat-sleeved top. Both women were acutely aware of everything the other one said, did, and wore. They were sizing each other up.

And then I understood that the man wasn’t important. The women were in a three-way competition for him, regardless of how he treated them or who he was inside.

“He likes girl-on-girl, you know. He likes to watch.” Did Erica say that, or did her rival?

“I’m not playing.” And then both women, or girls, pulled their tops up over their heads, raising their arms to do so, boldly unhooked their bras and threw them to the floor like matadors’ capes. They were performing a strip-tease competition, showing off and offering something better than he had ever given them.

They wanted each other. Each seemed to be posing, but each wanted to capture the other’s essence in a portrait.

“If I can’t have you, neither can he.” I didn’t know which one was speaking, but it didn’t seem to matter.

As the dream-scene wavered and dissolved in my mind’s-eye, I realized why I had kept my distance from women as well as men for so long, using motherhood as my excuse.

Relationships are never really one-on-one, I thought. They’re always more complicated, more multi-dimensional.

On a Thursday, Katie told me that she had agreed to let Zach come to our door to drive her away in his own car on Saturday. That was the date I had circled on my calendar because Amanda had invited me to the opera. “Are you going for coffee with the other kids?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she answered. I knew she was hiding something.

“Be careful, Katie,” I warned her. “I don’t want you to be alone with him. You don’t need a boyfriend who snorts cocaine.”

She stared at me, and her high voice split the air. “You read my diary!” she shrieked. “Mom, you had no right! That is my own private writing and it’s none of your business!”

“Katie,” I pleaded. “I’m concerned about you.

You spend so much time with your friends when you should be planning your future. I want you to finish high school.”

“I can’t believe this!” she screamed. Her face was contorted in rage. “Just because you have no life, it doesn’t give you the right to take over mine! I’m gonna go live with Dad.”

33

Khimairal Ink

I seriously doubted if this plan would come to fruition, but that awareness was cold comfort.

The inevitable had come to pass, and I was now living with my beloved child in a state of cold war.

Zachary appeared at our door on schedule.

He was alarmingly attractive. He had dark hair, classic features, and a sculpted body which could have launched a modeling career or a thousand ships. “How are you, Mrs. Robinson?” he asked, using the married name I had tried to leave behind me years before. That name was one of the few things that Katie had inherited from her father.

“I’m fine,” I answered, wondering if I could find a polite way to make it clear to him that his game was clear enough to me. There was nothing childish or half-baked about him. I could easily imagine him as a magical character created in adult form by a teenage player in a role-playing game.

Katie came toward him with a shy smile emphasized by lips the color of some exotic fruit, her eyes shining behind heavy mascara. She seemed to be wearing the uniform of a street whore, but with an incongruous air of innocence.

I knew I couldn’t tell her to change clothes without creating a scene. “Wear your jacket,” I said. “It’s not very warm out.” She shrugged into it without answering.

I reminded her to be home by her curfew, and Zachary promised to bring her safely back to me by then. I watched them both walk out the door, suspecting that a good mother would have handled the situation much differently.

Alone at last, I dressed for my own date.

What does one wear for a seduction by opera?

I settled on my red silk top and the long black skirt that was meant to make me look taller and slimmer.

Amanda appeared in a navy blue pantsuit with velvet lapels and a white top that showed her trademark cleavage. She looked like the perfect mixture of a lady and a gentleman, but she wore a grin that seemed to be borrowed from some notorious rogue in history. “Has Katie left already?”

“Yes.” I had told Amanda her plans for the evening. “I met Zachary. He looks like trouble, but at least they’ll be with their usual posse.”

Amanda strode into my hallway, swept me into her arms, and kissed me. It was a warm, deep, old-fashioned kiss, full of barely-restrained passion. Before I could catch my breath, she had pulled away to look at me. “Don’t worry, honey,” she told me. “Let’s go.”

We arrived at the theater in time for the overture, which was full of weeping violins and thundering kettledrums. I had loved opera as a teenager, and I wondered why Katie and her friends didn’t recognize the drama of their lives in it. “You know it’s all in Italian, don’t you?”

Amanda asked me.

“With no subtitles? I’m not familiar with this one. I won’t know what’s going on.”

“I’ll fill you in,” promised my date, shamelessly holding my hand.

Her running commentary was better than a mere translation. The heroine (soprano) was in peril. The hero (baritone) was delayed, but since he reminded me too much of Zachary, I was in no rush for him to be reunited with the heroine.

The sets and the costumes were all in rich, jewel-like colors, and the voices soared through the hall like powerful birds.

I was distracted. Amanda’s presence was energizing, and my concern for Katie was upsetting my stomach. I looked forward to the final act, because I knew that in opera, unlike in life, all complications eventually get resolved in one glorious, resounding aria.

Back in the lobby, Amanda asked me what I thought. “I loved it,” I told her. “There’s nothing like hearing it live.” I missed the sound of my daughter’s voice calling out to me in surprise or joy. “Do you mind if we go back to my place?”

I asked. “I have some white wine in the fridge.”

I suspected it was several grades below the standard she preferred, but it would have to do.

When I let us into the house, music with a strong beat thumped from the stereo, and the only light in the place came from flickering candles.

Two bodies lay on the sofa, and both were moving in rhythm. The dim light gave depth to the glossy hair on Zachary’s head and lit up a startling flash of white skin beneath him. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that one of Katie’s breasts was exposed, while one of Zachary’s hands covered the other one. Her eyes were closed

34

Khimairal Ink

and she was moaning something that sounded like a half-hearted protest.

Amanda was behind me, and I couldn’t be sure how much she saw. As though a finger of judgment had appeared in the air, pointing at me, I knew this situation was my fault. My cool, slippery red silk top felt like a scarlet label that read “Bad Mother.”

A shift in the suitor’s position showed me what I wanted to know: he was sliding a hand downward over the smooth skin of my Katie’s torso. “No, Zach,” she murmured. “Not here. My mom’s coming home.”

“It’s okay,” his deeper voice intoned. He chuckled in a way that sent chills down my spine.

“We’ve got time.”

That did it. I turned on the wall lamps, then stepped forward to turn on all the table lamps. I turned off the music. Light and silence crashed into the room.

“Mom!” screamed Katie, giving Zachary a strong push. He scrambled awkwardly off her.

“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, obviously trying to think of something charming to say. His eyes widened at the sight of Amanda. “Ma’am.” Katie covered herself, avoiding my eyes.

“Zachary,” I told him in a voice I didn’t recognize, “you belong in reform school or prison and I’ll see that you get there.”

“Hello, Zachary,” said Amanda.

He seemed to deflate like a balloon before my eyes. Some thread obviously connected him to Amanda. The whole world seemed connected except me.

“Professor,” he mumbled miserably. “I have to go.”

“No you don’t, Zach!” wailed Katie. “It’s not fair after what you told me. My mom needs to know what she’s getting into. Go on, tell her.”

Zachary looked desperate. He was covering his crotch with a classic fig-leaf gesture to prevent us from seeing his cock at half-mast.

“Not right now, Katie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Katie looked as if she were watching the love of her life sailing away on a ship headed for unexplored waters. “Zach, they can’t kick you out like this. I live here too.”

“You live here under my rules, Katie,” I reminded her.

Amanda stepped forward. “Katie, I’m so glad

to meet you, even if the circumstances are a little awkward. I’ve heard so much about you.

I’m Amanda Princely-Sum.” Katie shrank back as though Amanda were a gnarled old witch threatening to turn her into a toad. “Zach told me about you. Everyone knows at the university, and now you’re after my mom just because she’s nice to everybody.”

Katie turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Mom, you have to stop being so trusting! This lady doesn’t just want to be your friend.

I didn’t know how to tell you.” Katie bravely planted herself between me and Amanda, shielding me with outstretched arms.

Amanda could barely control a guffaw. “Katie, I can see what a loving daughter you are, but I’ve been totally honest. Your mother knows I’m into women, and I have the best intentions toward her.”

Zachary was trying to sneak out to the hallway where his jacket was draped over the banister.

Amanda calmly stood in his way. “Here’s what I suggest,” she told us all. “Let’s all go for brunch tomorrow when we’re calmer. On my tab. I think we’re all mature enough to have a civilized conversation.”

My daughter and her suitor agreed with her assessment of them without looking her in the eyes. “Goodnight, Katie,” said Zachary uncomfortably. “I’ll call you.”

Katie stood trembling with a tornado of emotions. I stepped forward and hugged her, causing her to go stiff as a board and then sag like a rag doll. “Katie,” I said. “Honey.”

“Men aren’t all bad, Mom!” She sniffed. “He’s really nice. You don’t know him.”

“Oh, honey.” I sighed. “You’re growing up, and there’s a lot you don’t know yet. You can’t just—I know it’s hard. You should give Professor Amanda a chance too. Haven’t I taught you to have an open mind?”

“I’m still going to move in with Dad.” I knew from the way she said it that the ice in her was breaking.

“We’ll see. His rules are a lot stricter than mine.” She choked on a laugh and a sniff. “You need to go to bed.”

Katie, the junior love goddess in my life, looked relieved that she was being ordered back to her sanctuary—to do what? Masturbate

35

Khimairal Ink

under the covers? Cry? Pour out her feelings in her diary, burning up the pages? As she would have told me if I had asked, it was none of my business.

“Good-night, Katie,” said Amanda. “’Night,” my daughter tossed over her shoulder.

Knowing her as I did, I found hope in her response.

Alone with Amanda, I wrapped my arms around her. “Professor,” I teased, “would you like to spend the night with me so you won’t have to go all the way home before brunch?” I was afraid that if she left my house before morning, our love affair would be doomed before it was launched.

“Not tonight.” She softened this answer with a kiss. “Tomorrow. We have time.” She looked steadily into my eyes.

“Good enough,” I told her. “Amanda—” “You’re welcome,” she answered. “I need you in my life, Mary. Call it karma.”

The way she looked at me was playful, but she couldn’t hide the angry, burdened, restricted, greedy, rebellious teenager she must have been.

I realized that every woman who raises a child must revisit her own youth in the process,

but every woman who doesn’t raise a child or perform some equivalent community service must remain a daughter until she finds some way of breaking the spell.

I knew that the easiest thing for Amanda to do would be to walk out my door, never to return. I also knew that if she had always taken the easiest route, she would not have arrived where she was at this point in her life.

She seemed to read my mind. “I’ll be around, Mary. I want to see this through. You’d have to drive me away, but then you’d miss all the stories I can tell you. I know you’re curious, honey.”

I laughed.

“I have a feeling things will work out, don’t you?”

I wasn’t in touch with any premonitions that might have been lurking in me. I hardly dared to question my feelings, or sit them down for a serious talk, because I was afraid of what they would tell me. But Amanda’s optimism was incredibly uplifting, like a strong wind that could lift me right off the rocky ground of reality.

I hugged her goodbye. “I want them to,” I told her. “We’ll see.” And so we did.

In Keisha’s Shadow Tori’s life seems to be going from bad to worse when brash and flirty Ashley shows up and turns her world upside down.

Nuance

http://nuancebooks.wordpress.com/books/in-keishas-shadow/

36

Khimairal Ink

Elaine Burnes Elaine Burnes lives, works, and writes in Massachusetts. After many years of writing and editing nonfiction, she became sick of reality and turned to fiction. Her story, “A Perfect Life,” is in the anthology Skulls and Crossbones, from Mindancer Press. She credits any writing success to the support of her loving wife and encouragement of the members of the Lesbian Fiction Forum. There are a couple of cats involved, too, but they tend to be more of a hindrance than a help.

R. G. Emanuelle R.G. Emanuelle is a writer and editor living in New York City. Most of her writing has been nonfiction, but she recently returned to writing fiction and has many projects in the works. She is co-editor of Skulls and Crossbones, an anthology of female pirate stories, and her short stories can be found in Best Lesbian Erotica 2010 and Lesbian Lust: Red Hot Erotica.

V. Jo Hsu V. Jo Hsu is about to complete her final semester at Rice University, after which she will have a BA in English and Theatre. In her junior year, she studied abroad at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, England, where she worked on the creation of the UEA Square. Currently, she serves as the fiction editor for the Rice Review and as the fiction intern for Our Stories. In her spare time, Jo enjoys photography, acting, and playing dissonant guitar.

Jean Roberta Jean Roberta teaches first-year English classes in a Canadian university and writes in several genres.

Over seventy of her diverse erotic stories have been published in print anthologies such as Best Lesbian Erotica (2000, ‘01, ‘04, ‘05, ‘06, ‘07, ‘09). Her first single-author collection of erotic stories, Obsession (2008) is available in several formats (www.eternalpress.ca/obsessionnew.html). Her non-erotic fiction includes “Authentic,” about a song-writing ghost from 1905, in Haunted Hearths & Sapphic Shades: Lesbian Ghost Stories (Lethe Press 2008). Jean’s monthly op/ed column, “Sex Is All Metaphors,” can be found here: www.erotica-readers.com (in the Smutters Lounge gallery). She is a staff reviewer for this lesbian site: www.kissedbyvenus.ca, and this erotic site: www.eroticarevealed.com.

More at www.JeanRoberta.com.