North of Havana

3

We had showered and changed. Because Dewey said she wasn't in a party mood, we decided not to go to the marina. How long had it been since I'd missed a Friday night with the fishing guides? I made a light dinner: grilled snapper with mango chutney and salad. We did the dishes exchanging the kind of polite conversation that is really silence. Finally, as I was putting the last dish away, she said, "Are you still in the mood to listen? There're a couple of things I left out."

I told her, "No kidding," then listened to her tell me that, for some reason, it would be a lot easier to talk about if she didn't have to look at me. I suggested we sit out on the deck, lights off, and look at the winter sky. Dewey said no, what she wouldn't mind doing was maybe lie on the bed, her face in a pillow, with only the reading light on. Then she added, "And you might as well rub my back while I'm down there," giving it a tone of indifference- why not do two jobs at once? "I pulled a latissimus the other day when I was lifting. My whole back feels out of whack."

I thought: Why does she want to try this again? Then I thought: Because she's trying to rebound from Bets.

But I did what she said. She was trying to orchestrate so carefully that it seemed needlessly cruel not to go along with it. Sometimes I try hard to believe my own lies…

So I switched the reading light on, switched the other lights off. Heard her fiddling with the stereo and then heard Marianne Faithfull come on, soft, haunting, ephemeral- one of Tomlinson's albums from his flower child days. Then came around the clothes locker into shadows to see Dewey lying there in nothing but her heavy bra and bikini panties. Anticipating me, she was up on one elbow, face looking soft and serious. Before I could speak, she said, "Just shut the hell up and let me get this out of my system. All I want you to do is work on my back."

I said, "Your call."

She buried her face in the pillow and said, "Don't say a word."

"If that's what you want."

" 'Cause what I need to do is, I'm going to pretend like you're not here…"

Sitting on the bed, hip-to-hip; Dewey sprawled belly-down, talking softly about this and that, nothing serious, until she said: "I guess this thing with Bets's been on my mind. So, yeah, maybe I need to talk with somebody about it. Lucky you, huh?"

Long silence.

Then: "What'd you ask me-am I in love with Bets? I answered you, but I didn't answer you. Bets told me for nearly a year-'I love you, Dewey'-before I could even make myself say the words."

I waited through another long pause. Heard, "So… I finally said them and… Christ, it was like freedom. Like I could finally admit, yeah, this is what I am. All the time I spent worrying-hey, why'm I the only one who doesn't fit in? God… and the guilt. Gone, just like that. 'I love you, Bets.' Said those words and it was the greatest feeling. Like letting go. You know?"

No, I didn't know. But I didn't say it. Kept working on her back, using my thumbs to knead the lean muscle cordage beneath soft skin. I wanted to tell her something Tomlinson had once said: Guilt is the curse of those who care. It wasn't often, but the man's unrestrained spiritualism sometimes made sense even to me. But this was her time to talk… and it was sounding more and more like a catharsis…

"So I moved in with Bets. It wasn't just because I wanted a roommate, like I told you. All I wanted to do was be with her. Be with Bets. Man-we laughed so much together. Something else, first time in my life, I enjoyed… sex. First time anyone ever touched me that I wasn't tense or worried or felt like I had to fake it. You know Bets- those long fingers of hers?-but they're soft, too. The way she uses them. And kissing-"

I felt Dewey's body shudder beneath me.

Could feel my own pulse as I listened to her say, "The kissing was so nice. You know that feeling? You're kissing someone so lost in it all, like you're breathing for each other. Then we'd giggle like little girls." She said, "Whatever happens, I've got Bets to thank for that," as she pushed herself up on an elbow, fished around beneath her

… heard the sound of contracting elastic… and she slipped her bra off. Got a brief look at the pendulous weight of her left breast as she turned to toss the bra on the floor. "You mind? This thing's choking me plus it's getting in your way."

I cleared my throat; looked at her clothes in a pile by my feet. Stood and folded them neatly over my telescope, more to put some distance between us than anything. My body was reacting to her story in a way that I could not control. I needed a break.

Heard Dewey say, "Get back here, Ford." Heard her say, "Hey-while you're up? You got any oil? Body lotion, I mean?"

I did. Knew I shouldn't get it… but I found it in the medicine locker anyway. Then, when I was settled, pouring oil on her back, she said, "Now… where were we?"

I kept telling myself that I was listening with the careful ear of an objective observer… but, more likely, I was forcing an interest to keep my mind off what my hands were doing; off what my hands wanted to do. This was a Dewey that I'd never met and didn't know: the secret Dewey giving me a tour of her secret world.

"They're mostly nice people," she said, "just like anybody else. Not kinky or weird; not perverts. Just women living their lives. Our friends were mostly jocks-it's what we call each other. 'She's a dike.' Or 'she's a jock.' There's a difference, understand. Doesn't mean she has to play sports-it's a look-but she probably plays sports.

"I was always what they considered a jock, but then that started to change. It's what I'm telling you about; the trouble between Bets and me. See, the third type's a 'lipstick': a girl who's pretty and feminine. A lipstick is gay, but she can probably go both ways and enjoy it." She hesitated a moment before she said, "I ever strike you as feminine?"

"Of course."

"Well, Bets really got mad when I started thinking that way. Before she and I became lovers, she wanted me to be absolutely certain how I felt. I give her credit, she did her best to help me find out." I felt Dewey's hand slide back, feel around, and finally find my thigh. Gave me a gentle pat. "That time you and I tried to sleep together? Bets knew about it. In fact-and this is something I never told you-it was mostly her idea."

She didn't have to tell me because I already knew.

Now I was more aware of what Dewey's hand was doing than of what my hands were doing… her fingers exploring around on my thigh… stopping here, pressing there… maybe searching for something.

"Don't get a big head."

That startled me. I said, "Huh?"

Her voice had gotten softer, sleepier. "Because I said you're the man I was thinking about. Let's face it, Ford- you're not what anybody would call handsome. Kind of interesting-looking, yeah. Big and solid and safe-looking. And maybe that's it. You're a nice guy."

I thought: You don't know…

She said, "Some of those guys used to come sniffing around our group were such jerks. Know what this one said to Bets? This dude-he's a little drunk; got the jive attitude-he comes swaggering up and he says, 'Ma' lady, the only reason you're the way you is 'cause you never been with a real man.' I mean, Bets, all of us, just cracked up laughing. Four or five of us standing there, laughing in this idiot's face. Didn't even have a clue what we were all about."

"Apparently not," I said.

"So that's what happened. I finally told Bets: 'Hey, I think I'm a lipstick.' Some of the other girls had already been saying it-they can pretty much always tell. Even if a woman doesn't realize it herself. Like we're on the street and they see some woman, has a couple of kids, hubby there guiding her around. They make eye contact with the woman, nothing more, and we walk away and one of our group would say, 'She's a jock, doesn't even know it.' Or 'She's borderline lipstick, probably never even tried.' They know. They really do."

"And now you want to find out if they're right."

"Yeah, but another thing was… pretty much the main thing, really"-Dewey removed her hand from my thigh, getting serious-"I told Bets something that really pissed her off."

I said, "Oh?"

"I told her that I was thinking about kids. That I was thinking about having a child, I mean."

I almost stopped rubbing her back but caught myself.

"I told Bets that I'd thought about it and it was something I wanted to do."

"I can see why that would surprise her."

"Because I'm gay, you mean? No, that's not the way it is. A lot of gay women have the urge, but I think it was the combination of the two: I'm feeling attracted to men and women, and I want to have a baby." Felt Dewey's hand return to my thigh, feeling around as she settled herself on the bed; heard her say, "No, there was a third thing, too. When Bets told me she had to go to Madrid, I told her then maybe I'd fly down to Florida and see you."

I felt her hand slide up higher on my thigh; felt her fingers fumbling with my zipper. "We had a big fight about that one. But after she left I started to feel guilty, so I decided to fly to Madrid and apologize. After that, I wasn't in the mood to apologize anymore."

Heard my zipper open-the sound of silk tearing-felt her fingers patting around, not finding anything.

Heard her say, "Oops, wrong side," then laughter. Told myself I should pull her hand away as she said, "My oh my, you really are a right-hander."

Which is when the phone rang.

Tomlinson calling from Havana…