My Very Best Friend (48 page)

Gitanjali, graceful and elegant, in a pink dress, her black hair in a ponytail, stood next and said, with soft gentleness, “My friend Bridget, beautiful woman in her heart. No one here judge. I not afraid of this AIDS. What I afraid of is I do not see love and kindness in room here. That is all. Thank you, friends.” She sat down.

Some people have a way of wrapping things up with more kindness than me.

I stood and said that Bridget and I had been best friends forever and I was not the slightest bit concerned about catching AIDS. “If you are worried about catching AIDS from Bridget, you should also be worried that a comet with a leprechaun riding on top of it is going to land on your head, as that is about equal to your chance of getting AIDS from her.” I did discuss cellular biology in terms of AIDS, briefly, to strengthen my argument.

When I was done, Toran stood and walked to the front of the room. He turned and waited until everyone sat down and was quiet. Mayor MacBay stood one step behind him, as did Chief Constable Ben Harris. Toran was calm. Controlled. Towering and strong jawed. I loved him more than ever. I wanted to see him naked.

“I want to thank everyone here who came today to this meeting, to listen, and to learn. I’d like to thank the doctors here, too. I won’t go over the medical information, the irrefutable proof that you will not get AIDS from Bridget. I will, however, talk about Bridget.” He stopped, collected himself.

“My sister, Bridget, is the kindest woman I have ever known. She was kind when we were growing up with a father who was not often kind to her. She was kind to all of you. She was kind to our mother. She was kind to her best friends, Charlotte and Pherson.” He stopped and looked around the room. “She’s even kind about all of you now. She knows about the petition. She knows many of you don’t want her in town. She is unbearably hurt by your rejection, yet she told me, yesterday, ‘I’m not angry at them at all.’

“She is ill. She is suffering. There are people in this town who are making her life worse, but she isn’t angry at you. She has a giving, forgiving, angelic spirit.” He paused, took a deep breath, and I could see that simmering anger. “I, however, do not. How dare you demand that my sister stays away from the village of her birth. How dare you slash the tires of our tractors. How dare you throw bricks through our windows and burn down one of my barns. How dare you threaten us.” He glared at Baen and Gowan. “How dare you say the horrible things you have about my sister. Your lack of compassion and understanding has stunned me. It’s hurt Bridget, worst of all. You shouldn’t even be calling yourself a Scot. Bridget didn’t deserve to get AIDS. No one does.”

No one moved. No one shifted.

“Bridget is dying. She has little time left. She has endured more in one lifetime than any one person should ever have to endure. If I told you what Bridget has been through, and I won’t, because it is her story to tell, not mine, most of you, those of you with a heart, would be shocked.

“Bridget told me to tell all of you . . .” He wiped his eyes, which made me cry, and I am not a quiet crier, so I grabbed my tissues. “She told me to tell all of you not to worry. She doesn’t want to upset any of you, doesn’t want to bring any worry to your lives, so she says she will not come into the village again. Yes, for you, she is doing that. She is banning herself from a village she loves, from a castle she loved to play in as a kid, from a cathedral she ran around, from shops she loved to visit, from the pubs and bookstores and cafés”—he glared at Laddy and Lorna—“because of your undeserved hatred and inexplicable fear of her.

“Bridget is the same woman whom you all knew when she was a girl. The same girl with a bright smile who is a talented artist. I’m sorry that at the end of her life, so many people here, who have known her for years, are willing to easily, without any remorse, condemn her, harshly judge her, and make the last part of her life worse than it already is.”

He stopped talking, scanned the room. Some people bent their heads in shame, in sorrow. Others looked away. His friends, his true friends, looked him straight in the eye.

“If any of you do anything to harm Bridget, or to bring her more grief, I swear to you, you will regret it. With everything that I have, I will make you regret it.” His voice softened. “To our friends, and I have found out these past weeks who they are, I thank you. Your friendship has meant everything to us. Your kindness will never be forgotten. You may go ahead and take a vote, if you want, to ban Bridget from the village, to quarantine her. Go ahead, if it makes you feel better. The result makes no difference to me.

“I, however, will spend the rest of the time that Bridget has laughing and talking, and grateful for every minute of every day that I have with her.”

I could hear people crying.

Toran sat back down.

The meeting abruptly ended when Olive Oliver stood, her husband proud beside her, in their matching friendly snake scarves and declared, “We have all the information we need, from reputable doctors. Bridget is welcome in the village. She is not contagious. Stand with me if you believe the same.” She held those giant cutting shears up in her hand victoriously and waved them.

Rowena stood up and said, “I’m with Bridget,” and so did Gitanjali and Malvina. Malvina glared at her mother.

I watched as people stood from their seats. Almost everyone. The doctors on stage, including Kenna, stood, too.

Lorna and Laddy had bright red, squished-up faces. They did not lift their jiggly, imperialistic bottoms from their seats. Baen and Gowan glowered, like bacteria.

When everyone sat back down, Olive said, clicking her gardening shears together with both hands, “Now I want to take a vote on Lorna, Laddy, Baen, and Gowan. Stand up if you think these people should be banned from the village.
Quarantined!
”

I couldn’t help myself. I stood up. Most of the other people did, too.

Too bad for them.

Olive cut through the air with her clippers three times. “The vote passes! You four are now quarantined!”

I kissed Toran on the cheek in the car, then on the mouth. “I love you, Toran Ramsay.”

“I love you, too, Charlotte. Always have, always will.”

He sighed, his shoulders tight. We held hands all the way home.

We checked on Bridget, who was asleep, then we made love in front of the fireplace. We ate lemon squares, a recipe from my mother’s Georgian mother, together.

On Saturday, Bridget said, “Clan TorBridgePherLotte must reenact our King Toran, Queen Bridget, King Pherson, and Queen Charlotte roles.” She tapped Toran’s dining room table with her knuckles.

“You’re kidding,” Toran said.

“No, I’m not. Let’s do it,” Bridget said.

I looked at Bridget. For an inexplicable reason she was having a fine day, I could tell. She had eaten and she’d slept well last night.

“Fair Queen Bridget, I don’t have my crown,” I said.

“I know where it is.”

“I don’t have my sword,” King Toran said.

“I’ll get it,” Queen Bridget said.

“I’ll want to rescue you with my cape on,” King Pherson said.

“I’ll let you. I’ll tie the cape.”

“I’m in,” I said.

“Can I rescue you, Charlotte?” King Toran asked me.

“I’ll rescue you. I am a feminist and do not need a man to rescue me.”

“What if I say please?” King Toran said.

I sighed dramatically. “If you must.”

King Toran smiled, slow, easy, sexy. Biologically we clearly had cells in love.

“Thank you, Queen Charlotte.” He stood up and bowed. “I am at your service.”

Baby, I would like to service you.

We trooped upstairs, Bridget swaying some, so I put an arm around her waist. She knelt, slow and careful, and opened her hope chest. “All here,” she announced. “Come along, kings and Queen Charlotte, get your royal clothing.”

It was like opening a box of royal memories.

We each put on our metal, sparkly gold crowns with plastic jewels that my mother had bought us. We pulled on four sheets—two pink, two blue, with a few holes—that we used as capes. We wrapped gold belts around our waists, made from shiny fabric my mother had let us cut apart. The gold was fraying but still bright.

Bridget and I pulled on red ruffled skirts that fell to our knees.

“I remember how I loved wearing this skirt,” I said.

“Me too.” Bridget’s voice was wistful.

“Way too tight,” I squeaked out, as I pulled it up over my jeans.

Pherson and Toran pulled on plastic, gold-sprayed armor. It was too small for those monster-sized men, and it had us all bent over, laughing.

“It might stop a spider,” Toran said.

We all picked up our four plastic swords, then stood in a circle. We automatically put our fists in.

“Clan TorBridgePherLotte,” we shouted. “Activate our powers! Make us mighty, make us strong!”

We left in Toran’s truck, but not before Pherson accidentally broke his sword. “I have been emasculated,” he intoned. “A man without a sword is not a man.”

“You’re still my man,” Bridget told him.

“Alas, fair lady, thank you for that.”

“You can have my sword,” she generously offered.

“Aha! I am a man again,” Pherson announced, taking it. “Come along and I’ll rescue you, Bridget!”

“You’re my Prince Charming,” I told Toran.

“And you’re my Princess Charming,” Toran drawled.

“Don’t forget I’m a Princess Charming who is independent and a feminist.”

“I shall not. As long as you remember to let me be the rescuing knight.”

“As long as I get to fight the dragons now and then, I’ll agree.”

“Done.” He kissed me.

That day, the sun shining down like liquid gold, the wind crisp, fall leaves swirling, we fought the enemy, The Dragon Foes, who were part human, part dragon.

We spied on the highland knights.

Bridget and I allowed ourselves to put aside our feminist leanings and let Toran and Pherson rescue us after we had been captured by the Evil Phantom, Fang.

I pretended to faint as Toran carried me away. I will admit that I enjoyed it.

Bridget was protected by Pherson, who shouted, “Away, my princess, away!” He picked her up and spun her around.

The four of us activated our powers, flipped back our capes, declared ourselves victors, and laughed so hard we could hardly stand.

We righted our crowns, tied our shiny gold belts, and chanted, our fists in a circle, “Nothing shall defeat Clan TorBridgePherLotte, not man, not monster!”

Then we went home and had turkey sandwiches and beer.

“I like your sword,” I whispered to Toran, eyeing his crotch.

“Ah, my lady,” he whispered back. “My sword will offer your maidenhood my eternal protection.”

“I don’t think I want protection.” I kissed his cheek and he laughed.

Bridget stayed mostly in bed the next few days but said, “Clan TorBridgePherLotte Day was one of the best days of my life. I’m glad I gave it a go.” She ached and we gave her pain killers. She couldn’t eat.

I saw the puff of steam in the sky from the train. It had grown.

And there it was, the whistle.

I went to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for meals I thought Bridget might like. At the end of the aisle I saw Lorna and Laddy. They did not see me. When I heard them mention Bridget’s name, I immediately scrunched down behind a stack of canned corn and leaned in to hear what they had to say. Nothing like spying on the enemy. Lorna was speaking, her voice pitchy.

“Laddy, some people signed my petition so that Bridget would not be allowed to ever come to the village again, including Mr. Coddler, Mrs. Thurston, and Mrs. Golling, who lives in the old folks’ home down on Brighton Street.

“Did you know Mrs. Golling is over ninety now? She said she would look at my petition because she liked apple pie, and when I told her about the AIDS and that it stood for All I Did Was Drugs and Sex, she signed it because she said she is tired of not having sex.

“One old man, Mr. Galing, said he would sign nothing that had anything to do with bigotry. He said he had been Bridget’s and Toran’s teacher one year at school and would do nothing to hurt those fine people. Fine people! My arse!

“I was offended! A few of those old biddies, well, many, perhaps most,
all,
then refused to sign the petition. Mr. Galing followed me around and told them his side of the story, after I gave my speech—he often interrupted me—and what he thought of my petition.

“Remember Jamilyn Hoover? She told me I was an old bat and I didn’t know the first thing about AIDS, and she told me that what the town had to fear was me—
me
—far more than we had to fear Bridget. She accused me of being a busybody and a gossip.

“I told her we could get AIDS from Bridget, and she interrupted me, too, and said that we couldn’t get AIDS from Bridget unless we had sex with her or did cocaine together. She said, ‘I am not a lesbian, and I do not do drugs, so therefore I am safe. Are you a lesbian, Lorna? I’ve wondered over the years. Do you like women? Your haircut indicates you do.’

“I almost fainted! Mrs. Hoover held her head up high as if I were nothing but a slug and said, ‘LaRhodia, ask Mrs. Lester to leave,’ and LaRhodia, you know that dark black woman from Africa, she asked me to leave. A black woman! Asking me to leave! I was aghast.... What do you think of all this. . . .”