Camptown Ladies (19 page)

Erica said, “So, the final straw, so to speak, was that she used a nail clipper at the table? That is amazing.”

“Well, she had a point, if the girl knew she had to clip the straw or she would keep stabbing herself in the eye. I mean, that is a level of dumb that is pretty frightening. Who the hell knows, maybe Lisa really liked the dumplings.”

We both laughed and then talked about Dad and Mom. Later in the meal, Erica said, “So, you plan on living with Vince and Lisa forever?”

I said no. Then I confessed to her a fantasy that I had not even told my brother and sister. When Lisa bought Camptown Ladies, she had deeded Vince and I each a large plot of land on the outskirts of the campground, mainly to stop anyone else from building near the camp, and I’d been thinking about building an authentic log cabin in the woods. After my confession, Erica studied me seriously, feigning interest, before she said, totally deadpan: “Dyke.”

Then we broke into more laughter, which ended when she stole something from my plate I had been looking forward to eating. I knocked it out of her chopsticks and popped it into my mouth in an impressive defensive counter move—rookie mistake on her part: gloat after you eat the stolen food, not before.

I learned a lot of trivial stuff about Erica that night, but she wouldn’t talk about Vince. No matter how many times I tried to steer her that way, she would veer off to avoid talking about him and ask me a random question about Lisa, Mom, Dad, or books or movies.

She asked, “Favorite movie?”

I answered, “Meryl Streep.”

“That’s not a movie,” she said.

“It should be,” I said. “Now, you are gonna really laugh at me, but one of my favorite movies is
The Bridges of Madison County.
”

Erica put down her glass, outraged. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Straight girls see it as a sappy romance, but lesbians love it because they know the entire first hour is entirely about Meryl getting wet.” Erica nearly spewed her wine again. I continued, “Sure, they don’t actually
show
this, and Clint Eastwood looks old enough to be her father, or at least a scary uncle, but still, Meryl is playing the part of a woman squirming to get boned the entire first hour of the movie. Good fucking times for us lesbos.” I sighed.

Erica laughed and shook her head at me, “Sometimes I do see a bit of Lisa in you.”

“Watch out! Lisa would like to see a bit of her in you.”

Erica just shook her head at me. “You Santoras are crazy.”

“Lisa and I are so different. She was born a parade-marcher; I’m more a parade-watcher. You wouldn’t think this was possible, but one time, Lisa went off on a political tirade while watching a dog show.”

Erica didn’t believe me, so I explained.

“We were watching the Westminster dog show on TV with a couple of friends and Lisa went to the kitchen to grab a beer. While she was in there, she heard the announcer say: ‘The thirteen-inch Beagle is no fan of gay men.’ She came tearing out of the kitchen swearing up a blue streak, screaming, ‘How could they say that, someone better get fired for this!’ and on and on about how she was going to write friggin’ letters to the network, and on and on—”

Erica interrupted, “Well that is an odd thing to say, I mean, how could they say that a certain dog breed—”

“Oh, I let her go on and on in front of our friends. Lisa loves a good fight, and wants the world to say Fuck you to her so she can fuck them back ten-fold. Just for fun, I even let her call the network before I told her that the announcer actually said: “The thirteen inch Beagle is no fan of game hen.’”

This time, Erica doubled over as she laughed. I could have been so caught up in the joy of making fun of my sister without the fear of getting pummeled, or maybe it was the bottle of wine that caused my guard to be completely down, but that was the moment I looked at her and thought:
I’ve never been attracted to someone who wasn’t older than me. Lorn’s power over me was so controlling, while Erica’s power is so much—

Whoa.

It had been the tiniest voice, like a distant trumpet on the farthest, tallest mountain in Whoville, yet I somehow heard it loud and clear. I gulped the last of my wine and stared at her. Of course I was attracted to her, the entire world was attracted to her, who could blame me for that? There. Now that I’d acknowledged it, I could throw it back over the fence. Like scooping your dog’s poop and throwing it into a nasty neighbor’s yard: I had put that shit back where it belonged, and I needed to forget I ever thought it.

I was staring at Erica, no doubt with a freaked-out look, and she was staring back, completely baffled by my expression. The silence grew between us, and I was thrown into a word association panic and started blithering.

“I had a dog growing up,” I said.

“OK.”

I said, “He was a Rottweiler named Bear. I got in big trouble when my neighbor told my parents I had been throwing his poop over the fence into her yard.”

There was a long pause while Erica considered if she had missed something in the conversation.

“And, you had been doing that?” she finally said.

“Yes.”

“Feel better?” she asked, looking at me for quite some time, unblinking. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Good story.”

We both laughed our asses off again, even with me knowing the secret about my attachment to her laughter, and her rare and dazzling smile. I realized all my attachment had not all been in the hope my brother would win her back. For the rest of the night, everything was suspect: the thudding in my chest, the heat in my face, the
stalling for more time together, the pleasure of seeing her again, of spending time alone with her, all of which had happened before, all of which I had never questioned until now.

But the damned distant voice had now named it, and I had heard it, so I spent the rest of the evening wondering how long I could ignore it, before everything would be ruined from what I should have known so long ago. How long would it be before she would know it? Or worse, how long would it be before my brother did?

Sixteen

Going Out With The Parents Is Such A Drag

I walked into the breakfast room at Gabriel’s Inn and Lisa said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m fine,” I said, and stupidly asked, “Why?”

Lisa answered, “How was your date last night? You look as white as a ghost. Holy crap, did somebody bleed you dry last night?”

Mom scolded her while I glanced over at Erica, who had a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as Lisa grilled me for details. I glanced over at Erica, and damned if she wasn’t enjoying watching me squirm. Last night, we had agreed to not tell them she had bid on me because it would be more “fun” to taunt them. This seemed a great plan to Erica, who didn’t have anything to hide.

In desperation, I took a different tack and covered a quick smirk at my sister as if I did have something to hide, and that maybe last night I had gotten the complete opposite of unlucky. This worked.

Lisa yelled, “Details!”

Happy to have dodged a bullet, I playfully ignored her and sat down at the table. Slowly, elegantly, I unfolded my napkin and placed it on my lap as if the world were watching me, which didn’t feel far from the truth.

“Come on,” Lisa pleaded, before she turned on Vince. “Do you know anything about this date?”

He put his hands up in surrender, looking like Uncle Freddie. “I’ve got nothing,” he said.

Lisa said, “I don’t think for a second that you got laid—”

“Girls!” Mom said, “This isn’t proper breakfast conversation.”

“You’re right Mom,” Lisa said. “Can someone pass Marie the hot, creamy butter.”

“Lisa!” Mom said, as we all laughed at her, especially Dad. Dad loved nothing better than inappropriate talk at the table. When Aunt Aggie finished devouring the last bite of her pancake tower breakfast, she cracked with her mouthful, “These children have terrible table manners.”

This was pretty much true, but when she said “terrible table” pieces of pancake flew out of her mouth and landed on the white tablecloth. Being part of a generation that never wasted food, she scooped them up with a two-finger dip and licked them back into her mouth. Uncle Freddie caught my eye and covered his peaceful smile by sipping on his coffee. Only one gentle “hee-hee” escaped and Aunt Aggie thudded him in the side, making him laugh harder.

Lisa was still studying me, so I risked a glance at Erica but regretted it when our eyes met and my stomach took a diving leap under the breakfast table. I could almost hear it land with a loud splat on the floor. When Erica winked at me playfully, it made me feel worse, yet I couldn’t help smirking. While I smeared butter on my pancake, my sister continued to taunt me for details, and when I chose to say nothing, I realized that might have been a mistake.

Lisa let her fork drop loudly to the center of her empty plate. Everyone looked at her and the feeling in the pit of my stomach was replaced with fear. I knew that look. And, apparently, she knew the look on my face as well.

“Shit!” Lisa said, “You liked her! Whoever it was, you liked her!”

I felt my eyes widen and this time I forced myself not to look at Erica. Then a perfect way to deflect Lisa occurred to me, and I gave her the “hubba-hubba” eyebrow action followed by a not-so-subtle wipe of the corners of my mouth, as a queen might do—if the queen had just chowed on a beautiful woman. Vince, gullible as always, gave a congratulatory slap on my back, and my reaction had the desired effect on Lisa.

“I call bullshit!” Lisa said, and Mom yelled at us again as I kicked the gloating up a notch with an over-the-top cocky look, even blowing a puff of air on my fingernails. I looked around and I noticed our
family had yet again taken over the Great Room and not another guest had dared to venture near the breakfast table with all the noise we were making. I saw Sweet Elizabeth poke her head in from the front desk room as if to remind herself that we were still just a bunch of rowdy Italians and there was nothing to be alarmed about, that yelling and profanity was happening in her usually peaceful breakfast room. I apologized a smile to her as she went back to her desk with a cheerful wave.

Finally, I felt confident enough to chance a sneak look at Erica, who was smiling that dazzling smile, and even though the smile was directed at her plate of pancakes, there was yet another leaping fall in the pit of my stomach. When I looked back across the table to my sister, I feared Lisa might not believe my story was bullshit after all. She was watching me, with that powerful older sister look that could make you confess things you didn’t even dream of doing—but what scared me most was that she didn’t call me on any of it.

On our last evening in P-town, I made the mistake of telling Lisa that since I had negotiated dinner plans with Aunt Aggie and Mom for nearly an hour, she would be in charge of finding something fun for us all to do after we had dinner. Of course, Lisa decided nothing would be more fun than to take everyone to a drag show at The Crown & Anchor. Thankfully, Aunt Aggie and Uncle Freddie had pooped out shortly after supper, since I suspected Aunt Aggie would have rallied for this one, had she known. (My second mistake? That would be not poking my eyes out so I wouldn’t have to see Erica in her outfit, another drop dead number, too dressy for a seaside town. I braced myself for a long night.)

When we got to the theater, I was suspicious when all the front seats were still available, but Dad was so excited that he nearly knocked over a couple of girlish men to claim the seats, and one guy let out a high-pitched shriek that rivaled Vince’s when he lost his battle with Wonder Woman. As Dad commandeered the entire front row for us (including a seat for Eddie, who had been MIA for
the last two days), Lisa wouldn’t let me tell Dad why the regular visitors to P-town knew those seats were dreadfully undesirable.