Femme Noir (12 page)

Why had I allowed Michelle in my life? My merciless mind persisted. Because I was so lonely, the answer came in bold. I was so lonely, that’s why I did it. I felt such profound relief at the truth finally being named, a tear almost squeezed out of my eye. Instead, I clenched my fists and every muscle of my body and breathed raggedly. It had been desperate hope and misplaced longing that permitted me to act against myself. I willed the damn tears to stay back, deep in my dry sockets, my eyes red and bulging slightly. And why then? Why did I fall for that one at that time? I was scared, getting older, and so unconsciously lonely. And why Michelle? She was just next in line. Someone handed me tissues. It was permission to cry. Well, I wouldn’t. Not until later. Maybe not ever. Sloane put her hand on mine long enough to squeeze gently, and then it was gone. And I, who worked through everything with the swiftness and efficiency of a strategic game plan, went further.

As my grief slowly ebbed into containment, I realized I knew what I wanted. I wanted a wife. A wife who was tailor-made. I wanted a real woman who lived with courage and gusto. A woman with authentic appetites. Hunger for great sex, great food, great love, and great fun. One who was big and generous and who could stand up to me but could also melt. One who was beautiful without vanity and without trying. A woman who could dress up or down and had confidence no matter how she looked and didn’t depend on me for forced praise, fishing for compliments. One who didn’t always ask, Do I look fat? Does this make my butt look big?

Yeah, I would say with a grin, get all your clothes like that.

Someone who was juicy and ripe and luscious and large and knew the value of such a thing. One who could fight with me and play with me too. Someone who commanded respect and fidelity just with her breath.

Someone who could soothe me and make me laugh. Someone I could make to laugh too. A laugh like ice cubes tinkling in a glass…

Most of all, I wanted a woman who didn’t emasculate. Someone who treasured the sort of butch I was and adored me for being so. Someone for whom the complexities of butchness were as precious as they were to me. A woman who appreciated the perfect balance of male and female in the female body of a butch dyke. I cringed inwardly as I thought of my many misunderstandings and disappointments at the hands of truly well-meaning women who wanted me. A lot of femmes took their power from shrillness, bossiness, controlling, disdain, and contempt for the butches they desired and showed no respect for the gift of difference. How many women had I dropped cold after they tried to dress me? How many femmes had I abandoned, heartbroken, when they tried to get me into a skirt or a frilly blouse or other article of women’s clothing?

They came into my life like entitled matriarchs and I was the fixer-upper. They proclaimed I should wear my hair thus and so or wear just a little makeup to soften myself, or a little jewelry or carry a purse. Then they were traffic cops in bed and I was done with it. And that was just the beginning. What were these women thinking? Why were they attracted to me if they just wanted to change me? I decided long ago that women like this didn’t want love and harmony in their lives, they wanted aggravation and dissatisfaction and frustration. Maybe it gave them something other than their empty selves to focus on if I was their pet project and I was never completely acceptable and therefore never finished. I was their busywork.

Meantime, there were fights and unhappiness. Tantrums. I took to saying to a date first thing, “If we hook up, this is how I am, period. Cope or die.” But they were sly and manipulative, those sorts of femmes. They were all eyelashes and smiles, nodding and agreement, then,
wham!
Their faces came off and the battles began. I was excellent at walking out. Femmes like this were always from the South or from the Midwest. Who knows why they were like that? Was it because they needed to be in perpetual self-denial of what they really wanted? Or was it that they were ashamed of my butchness about which I had fierce pride? Or were they threatened? Could be a million things. I sighed and mentally listed what I
did
want.

A rare femme. Someone who—

I was startled from my reverie by everyone standing. Sloane gave me a small smile. Hymn books were removed from their shelves. To conclude the service, the congregation sang “Softly and Tenderly.” The minister announced the reception for one hour later at the family’s home; all were welcome, after a brief, private graveside service for the family only.

Everyone remained standing as the front rows filed out first, passing the now open casket. I surmised the family would stay and pass the coffin after the church was empty. Max and her escort edged out with their row and I had to stop myself from touching Max’s shoulder. We were separated again and she would be lost in the crowd and leave before I could speak to her. It took so long for my row to be ushered out, I was twitching in my skin. We approached Michelle and I braced myself, debating about walking the other way or closing my eyes. But with Sloane ahead of me, I knew I could do it. I should do it. The casket was lined with pink satin and velvet. There was an elaborate silkscreen of lilies inside the lid on the fabric. Michelle looked heavily made up and plastic. It was still shocking for me. A few days ago, fighting with her and blink, now this. Michelle’s hair lay in big, graceful curls around her face on the satin pillow. A way she
never
wore it. I sneered. Straight hair, no paint, just all grin. Depending on where Michelle was shot, the embalmers must’ve used some powerful putty to disguise it. Though, to me, it would’ve been gentler to see Michelle’s injured, bloody body as it was when she died than to see this repulsive, pretty fakeness. This false mannequin Michelle was too creepy to inspire sadness or a good-bye caress.

I closed my eyes and wished blessings to Michelle as I passed.

When we reached the exit, an usher was handing a stem of lilies to each guest. The press was packing up their gear.

Sloane took hers and went out into the blinding sun and drenched air of the parking lot and waited for me. I stared at my own lilies, counting the cost of that too. So it was over. So much was now over. The dread of the funeral, the funeral itself, Michelle and me, all of Michelle, and in a way, lots of old me too.

Sloane clapped me on the back and said, “A lot of us are going to Queenie’s now. Drinks are free.”

“What about the family reception?” I wanted to get a look at them. Shake hands, murmur condolences, look Michelle’s mother in the eyes. Maybe hear a few Michelle stories. Maybe tell a few.

“Naw, naw, that’s just for the rich white folks. They’re not wanting Michelle’s
gay
and nigga friends up at the big house. Just their own friends.”

“Okay, where’s Queenie’s?”

“Thirty-sixth and Peoria. Want me to drive?”

“No, I can find it. Is it near Swan Lake?”

“Yeah, everything is near Swan Lake.” Sloane laughed and walked away.

I stood in the sizzling parking lot alone, watching the people all around me leave and get on with their lives. They’d go home, kick off their shoes, take off the stiff clothes, and turn on the television. Suddenly, I was angry. It wasn’t this easy, I wanted to shout. An hour isn’t enough to say good-bye to someone. Even someone like Michelle. I threw her lilies down to wither on the searing pavement and walked to my car to consult my map. I would stay in the background, but I wanted to watch the graveside service. Then I could go to Queenie’s and try a gin and tonic.

Chapter Thirteen

In the car, it had to be two hundred degrees. Panting, I turned the air-conditioning on high. I checked the address of the cemetery. Park Lawn was just down the street on Peoria. Good. I could find that easily. The more I navigated Tulsa, the more I appreciated its logical layout. So Queenie’s would be roughly three miles from the graveyard. I sped down to the cemetery to get there well before the family so I could position myself in a good hiding spot.

It was a forested graveyard, though not so large as the acres and acres of dead cities I had seen on the West Coast. I turned in and saw there were several services happening today. I drove by the quaint stone cottage where the caretaker lived, searching for the correct tent.

In the distance, under a spread of live oaks, there was a huge crypt. With grim certainty, I drove to it, parked, and stared in awe. The crypt was a massive marble structure with pillars in the front, statues of angels at the four corners, stained glass windows, and an ornate wrought iron door. There were redbud and dogwood trees, as well as forsythia and azalea hedges along the edges of the family plot. The name McKerr carved about the door boldly announced ownership and glory. Wealthy, ostentatious, and superior even in death, I mused, wondering if the hedges were there for beauty or to separate the rich corpses from the other dead losers. Oklahoma pharaohs. Surrounding the crypt was an immaculate lawn of headstones used for the family once the crypt was full. There were even marble memorial benches provided for peaceful reflection. I approached Michelle’s grave, but not too close as workers were preparing for the service. It was as far to the left as it could fit and still be on McKerr land. I only knew it because the tent and chairs were set up. I nodded to a couple of workers who stared at me.

“The service won’t be for another few minutes. Why don’t you go get a cool drink and come back then?” one muddy man asked me as he poured water on his head and shook it off in a silver halo.

I shrugged and replied, “I need to be here now. I’ll stay out of the way.”

I felt such a sense of peace under the deep shade of the trees; in a flash I understood why people had plots. It was serene and beautiful and everywhere I looked I saw a nice view. City parks bordered the graveyard on two sides and the third view was the rest of the cemetery and the fourth was the downtown Tulsa skyline. Small though it was, its skyline was reassuring somehow.

I strolled among the headstones, some aged, worn and comfortable, some soft and crumbly, others hard, bright and new. There were many mighty patriarchs whose likenesses were chiseled in relief onto their tombs.

“Vanity, vanity, vanity,” I muttered. I noticed the dates went back more than a century, to the 1870s, right after the Civil War and roughly at the time of the Oklahoma Land Run. Right? I couldn’t remember. I sighed. It didn’t matter; these men made their money from oil, not land. Why didn’t Michelle ever tell me the truth of her origins? I saw squirrels cavorting through the trees. I saw the news vans pulling up, so I decided to find my place. I picked up a couple of acorns and walked to my car. It certainly came in handy today that Michelle’s family had never known me. I parked my car in the opposite corner of the graveyard and walked to within one hundred yards several plots over and sat beside a tree. I felt dizzy, wondering if I had heatstroke. My skull only perspired this much in the fourth quarter of a game when I had played the first three really hard. The wet air pressed from every direction like a vise. I sneezed five times in rapid succession, and because I was without tissue or handkerchief, I did the Farmer’s Salute: pressing one nostril closed at a time and blowing out of the open one like a power jet. The family was beginning to arrive.

The wind rustling the cottonwoods and the sycamores almost fooled me into believing it wasn’t sweltering. Even hiding in the overwarm shade with the torrid wind, I expected to grow gills on my neck. Who knew a landlocked dustbowl could have the weather of a rainforest? I thought it would be a desert like California, but this was the wettest air I had felt outside of a shower. Oklahoma continued to surprise me. No wonder it would be a short service. Even the natives must hate this, I mused. Why would anyone stay here long-term? I then remembered the quiet, intensely blue twilight, the marshmallow air, and the pearlbone moon hanging heavily over the maples; hearing the ducks mumble to themselves and the breeze bringing the scent of petunias and wisteria from somewhere. And actually hearing crickets and locusts and little frogs singing. The concrete of Los Angeles, perched though it was on the ocean, seemed so hard, fast, and lifeless in comparison. The birds chirped and warbled around my head. It was as if Tulsa had lifted her skirts and settled carefully into the earth, not disturbing habitat or wildlife.

I absently plucked a blade of grass and put it in my mouth. The family had arrived and the minister was present and I could hear, above the locusts and birdsong, his rich and fruity voice rolling over the headstones, even though I couldn’t understand the words. I squinted, trying to get a look at Michelle’s parents, who were among those seated. But between the shafts of sunlight over the distance and the gray shade of the tent, I couldn’t make out much. There were roughly twenty people at the service, a much smaller group than I expected. There was a man who looked familiar, as if I had seen him on C-Span or CNN, and off to the right…on the outside edge was someone I knew. Who? I sat up sharply, the grass falling out of my mouth. It was Jack.

Jack Irving, whom I’d met and liked at the bar when he was tagging along with Darcy, Jhoaeneyie, and Ava-Suzanne. What in the hell? The more I found out, the more mystified I was. One of the news cameramen fell over a stone cross. Security guards for Michelle’s family kept them at a distance.

The clan all bowed their heads simultaneously. Then, in turn, each came forward and dropped a scoopful of earth on the lowered casket. Then there was lots of hugging and gradually, they all drove away.

I sat in shock for a few moments, trying to puzzle everything out. I wiped the wet off my face with my sleeves. Next, I saw a Ford Crown Victoria pull up. I crouched lower even though I was out of sight.