Waltzing at Midnight (25 page)

The Chinese team arrived as planned, four middle-aged men and their female interpreter, a round-faced woman with a perpetual smile who spoke extremely rapidly in Mandarin and extremely slowly in English. Her English name, she told me, was Cindy. I had to stick with them eighteen hours a day, arriving at their hotel at six in the morning to be sure to be there to accompany them to breakfast. Because of the language barrier, it was an interesting experience. There was a lot of laughing on both sides of the conversation, though often neither side really understood the joke.

I arranged for a gigantic gift basket of local fruit to be delivered and waiting for them in their hotel suite upon arrival.

I took them to the symphony, on a riverboat trip through the delta, on a tour of the university, and showed them all around town, of course, including our small Chinatown. Things seemed to be going fine. During lunch both days, I called Rosie and we relayed the details of our two separate adventures. On the third and last day, for our tour of the museum, Rosie met us there as she had promised. It seemed to me that every time she was out of my sight for a few days, I forgot how lovely she was until that moment she came into view again. This time was no exception.

I’m sure it showed on my face when she walked up the stairs and into the foyer. After a brief look at me, a wide grin broke out on her face.

Our Chinese visitors politely accompanied us through the displays showcasing Weberstown history, and then through the art galleries, including Rosie’s pride and joy, the portrait gallery, 15

which was the newest permanent exhibit and contained a gold plaque just inside the doorway that read, “This exhibit was made possible through the contributions of Rosalind Monroe, Dr.

Chandra Patel and Kenneth Sturtevant.”

The museum had one room with artifacts recovered from the early Chinese settlements in the area, so Rosie steered us through that next, explaining to Cindy that our Chinese heritage was deeply-rooted and highly valued. Cindy, observing the displays of old Chinese coins and flatware, laughed. “Eighteen-forty-nine!” she exclaimed. “You think that is old?”

Rosie shrugged. “It’s as old as we’ve got,” she said. “For California, it’s old.”

Cindy turned to her countrymen and explained to them what she was chuckling about. The four of them broke out into a joint chorus of good-natured hilarity, pointing at our “old” Chinese artifacts.

“You come to Xi’an,” Cindy said. “I will show you myself what is old.”

“You mean the terra cotta warriors?” I asked, remembering this from my art history class.

Cindy nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “Yes, yes. You must see those. Those are old.”

“That’s for sure,” I said. “Third century BC. That would be something. But you know what I’d really like to see? Some of those three-legged bowls, those Shang dynasty bronze dings. I’ve only seen pictures, but I just love those. And they’re a lot older than the warriors.”

I noticed that Rosie was staring at me in surprise, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I had made some kind of
faux pas
. But Cindy was nodding emphatically and did not seem at all put off. “Oh, then you must come to Shanghai Museum,” she said. “Not only can you see them there, but the entire museum building is shaped to resemble a ding vessel.”

Cindy turned to explain to the others what we were talking about, and I stepped over to Rosie and whispered, “Did I say something wrong?”

16

Rosie shook her head, her expression full of affection. “Not at all. You’re doing everything right.”

Although I was utterly exhausted from these three days, as soon as I returned from the airport after dropping off my visitors, I immediately began to plan for Rosie’s first visit to my apartment. I invited her over for Saturday night, then made vegetable lasagna with three cheeses and a green salad. During the layering of the zucchini and cheese that afternoon, I felt like there was no way I would be able to eat anything. My stomach was turning cartwheels all day.

Rosie arrived on time with a bottle of Riesling and a broad, mischievous smile. After she stepped into the apartment, I took the wine from her, feeling oddly shy and a little insecure.

As she gazed over my space, she nodded. “Nice. Bright,” she said. “Cheerful. I love the window seat and skylights. A little sparsely furnished, but that can be remedied over time.”

For how long, I thought, are you going to leave me languishing here. I put the wine in the refrigerator, then said, “Would you like the grand tour?”

Just as I turned toward the doorway separating the living room from the bedroom, Rosie caught my arm and pulled me toward her. “Come here,” she said. “I can’t wait any longer.” She kissed me urgently, one arm firmly around my waist, one hand gripping the back of my neck. She was apparently not feeling the least bit shy. I let myself fall into her, closing my eyes and feeling the marvelous sensation of her mouth on mine. It was reality, after all, my memory of how completely she owned my body. We stood together, kissing one another for several minutes, until she said, “Do you have a bed in this place?”

I took her hand and led her through the doorway into the bedroom. There was almost nothing in this room either except the bed, the nightstand and a portable CD player providing a soft background of classical piano. On the nightstand and windowsill, I had placed a few candles, already lit.

“This is my favorite room in your apartment,” Rosie said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She reached over and grabbed me 1

by the waistband of my jeans, pulling me roughly between her knees. Her eyes were dark, flashing with desire. “Will dinner be ruined if it has to wait a while?”

I shook my head. “Dinner has always known that it was the second course tonight.”

Rosie grinned and pulled me onto the bed. Dinner waited patiently under a foil cover in the oven as we renewed our acquaintance with one another.

Afterward, I lay with my arms wrapped loosely around Rosie’s naked body, my cheek pressed against her back, chin still wet.

The heat of passion was wearing off and the chill of the night was beginning to creep over me. But I didn’t want to move, not even to pull up a blanket.

I felt like I’d always been here with this woman in my arms, that this was right, that this was me. “I still can’t believe that this could happen at my age,” I said, sliding my hand over the curve of her hip.

“You’re not alone,” she said. “There’s even a support group, as a matter of fact, called Late Bloomers.”

“Really?”

“Yes, composed of women like yourself, women who led exclusively heterosexual lives into middle age and beyond.”

“It happens that often?”

“It’s not as rare as you’d think.”

“What about you, Rosie? When did you first suspect?”

She rolled over to face me. “A very young age. All my adolescent crushes were on women—a sixth-grade teacher, a movie star, my best friend. I guess I just passed that off as unremarkable, since they were innocent and, as I understand it, not so unusual even for the ‘normal’ girls. I dated boys and went to the prom and did all the things you’re supposed to do, and married David Lamont, of course. But I think I knew all along. Once I admitted that, there were no more men. I am most definitely not bisexual.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“Nor you. You’re a late bloomer.” She smiled fondly at me in the flickering candlelight. “But oh, what a beautiful bloom!”

1

On one of my trips to my old house to get some things, I noticed Abby in her driveway taking grocery bags out of the trunk of her car. She looked up and saw me. I called a greeting to her, and she granted me a nod of her head, but said nothing, and then turned away. Okay, I thought, resigned, it’s started.

Amy was in the living room, talking on her cell phone, the ear buds of her MP3 player in place in her ears. How does she do that, I marveled. She got off the phone when she saw me.

“I just saw Abby,” I said. “She wasn’t especially friendly. Why?

Did you say something to her?”

“No. But I sort of told Lisa.” Amy pulled the ear buds out of her ears.

“Oh, Amy, for God’s sake. Don’t you have any sense? You tell one person, they tell two, and pretty soon everybody knows.”

“Geez, Mom, I wouldn’t want to be something that I was ashamed of.”

Was I ashamed? I still hadn’t told my parents. All they knew was that I’d left Jerry. They didn’t know why.

1

“How’s your dad?” I asked.

She frowned. “He pretty much sits around sulking. He thinks you’ll come back.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. He’s convinced himself of it. You won’t, will you?”

“No.”

“That’s what I told him. He says he knows you better than I do. He says you’re just having a mid-life crisis and you’ll come to your senses soon. He says he’s going to just wait it out.”

I made sure I was out of the house before Jerry came home.

I didn’t want to see him. He would just make me feel bad like he did during the emotionally draining phone calls that he made to me several times a week.

I had been fairly successful at avoiding him in person up until now, but I knew I would see him Thursday night, the opening night of Amy’s play. The possibility of seeing Jerry, though, wasn’t the greatest source of anxiety for me that night. This would be the first time Rosie and I went out to a public event as a couple, and that seemed like a pretty big deal to me.

We entered the theater fifteen minutes before curtain time.

Just inside, Rosie was approached by an eager young man who shook her hand. Then we were surrounded by a group of people.

Rosie introduced me to them one by one as “my friend, Jean.”

They’ll put two and two together. There’s no going back now, I thought. Rosie knew almost everybody in town, and certainly everybody knew her. It would be like that wherever we went.

There was not going to be any hiding with her. She was right.

She was as far out of the closet as it was possible to be.

In this venue, though, it wasn’t just Rosie who knew people.

There were people here I knew as well, people I’d known for a long time who would suddenly be looking at me in an entirely new way. One of these was Laura Ramsey, the mother of Amy’s best friend Wendy. Wendy, who had been friends with Amy since second grade, was also in the play. Laura and I knew each other well, had often found ourselves sharing parental responsibilities at school as our daughters grew up, and had even occasionally 10

socialized together as couples with our husbands. I knew Laura was in the audience tonight and I knew that she, more than most people, would be likely to know the details of my situation. As we stood at the back of the theater, I scanned the seats below us to locate anyone I knew. I wasn’t ashamed. I knew that. But it was still scary to hold yourself out there, inviting disapproval.

Rosie was so involved in conversation that I ended up going ahead to our seats alone, the orange plush orchestra seats ten rows back from the stage. As the houselights went down, Rosie slid into the aisle seat beside me and gave my hand a squeeze. I waited impatiently for Amy to come on stage. When at last she did, in full costume, I didn’t recognize her until Rosie jabbed me in the arm. Amy wore a gargantuan eighteenth century outfit of petticoats and satin. Her breasts were constricted and pushed up into the open bodice so that they looked huge. On the left one, a dark mole had been penciled in. She wore a white wig of monstrous proportions and carried a fan. I finally recognized her under the gaudy makeup. Yes, she was in there. Amy was hilarious. She stole the show, and it wasn’t just her mother who thought so. The crowd roared every time she spoke. Of course, the playwright had something to do with that, but you couldn’t discount delivery.

At intermission, Rosie and I stepped into the aisle to allow others to exit our row. That’s when I saw Laura coming up the center aisle toward us. I swallowed hard as I waited for her to see me. When she did, she smiled. I smiled. She approached us.

“Hi, Jean,” she said. “Both the girls are doing great, don’t you think? Amy’s cracking me up.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m enjoying it quite a bit.”

Now Laura turned to look calmly at Rosie, and it was time to introduce them.

“I’m sure you know Rosie,” I said. “Rosie, this is Laura Ramsey, Wendy’s mother. Wendy is the one playing Julia.”

“Yes, of course, I know Rosie,” Laura said. “She’s a local celebrity. But we’ve never actually met.”

As Rosie exchanged pleasantries with Laura about the play, 11

I tried to read Laura’s mind. She remained inscrutable. She may as well have been a Stepford wife. Not a word about Jerry, my broken marriage or my shocking relationship with the woman she voted for last November. After a few polite minutes, Laura excused herself with, “It’s nice to see you, Jean. There aren’t so many opportunities for running into each other as there were when the girls were younger. And, Rosie, I’m glad to meet you, finally. I was truly disappointed that you didn’t win that election.”

She moved up the aisle and out into the lobby as I sighed deeply. So that’s how it was going to be with those who were of a refined temperament. They would be polite and pretend that nothing had happened, but they would be distant, perhaps even disdainful under their unruffled veneer. I felt a little broken as I took my seat for the second act.

When the play was over, Rosie and I went to meet the actors in the lobby. Amy came out still in costume. When she saw me, she made her way over and touched her lips first to one of my cheeks, then to the other, in European fashion. With the wig, she stood well over six feet tall, but wasn’t slouching at all. Apparently it was okay to be remarkably tall while in character.