The last sliver of light slipped away, the final beam disappearing over the lip like the tail of a lizard. Anna’s thoughts tumbled down into the shadows where her body remained.
Night was coming and, with it, Monster Man with his thigh-carving equipment.
She decided she would take the chance and eat the other sandwich he’d left. If, indeed, the second waxed-paper package was a sandwich and not the fingers of children or dog turds. Keeping up her strength was important.
She would eat, then drink what she had to, but she swore to herself that she would do whatever it took to stay awake.
TWELVE
As Jenny hacked haphazardly through three stalks of celery, it occurred to her that she liked being alone, but only in small increments. Having a house to herself for a few hours was a luxury. Having to rattle around by herself twenty-four hours a day was a drag.
Anna Pigeon couldn’t cook, and she wasn’t a good trencherman—or was it trencherwoman?—but she was great with a knife, didn’t mind dicing and slicing, and, when she could be lured out of her room and into conversation, was good company. Like a soldier in an old movie, Anna wanted to stick with name, rank, and serial number. Jenny’d had to work at it even to get her curriculum vitae.
Anna had a BA in theater arts, did not sing, dance, or act, and had no interest in doing so. After college, she’d started out as a set carpenter. In her late twenties, she moved to assistant stage manager at an Off-Broadway theater she seemed to think Jenny should have heard of. Jenny assumed, but was not sure, this was a promotion. Several years before Anna came to Lake Powell she’d been promoted to stage manager. The money wasn’t bad, she said. That surprised Jenny. She’d been under the impression that everybody in theater who wasn’t on Broadway or the West End was starving.
Other than the job litany, Anna didn’t open up.
“Open up,” Jenny mocked herself. “I am becoming a moron,” she announced to the celery as she swept it from the cutting board into a pale green Melmac bowl with a burn trough on the edge where some jerk had used it as an ashtray.
“Open up” was one of a plethora of canned phrases that had flopped into Jenny’s vocabulary like a smelly old sardine to keep company with “closure” and “rebirth,” getting in touch with inner children, and the rest of the language of self-absorption. Jenny was fluent in psychobabble. Psychologists had made large sums of money trying to help her pin down the precise abuse she had suffered as a very small child—too small to remember it, or so traumatized she blocked it, naturally—that could explain why she didn’t like men.
It was all on her own, without a shrink in attendance or a self-help book in sight, that she’d realized she did like men. She just liked women better. Men were best in a bar fight or when heavy objects needed to be moved from point A to point B. Should she ever become a choir director she would want men to sing the bass parts, and maybe the tenor, though she supposed women could be found for that if one looked hard enough.
Men looked better than women in business suits. She’d gotten a lot of argument on that issue but held to her beliefs. Business suits were designed to make the wearer look important, imposing, rather like a powerful block of pin-striped cement with a stick up its ass.
This was not a good look for women.
Men won in contests of strength, in business-suit modeling, and when auditioning for Philip II in Giuseppe Verdi’s Don Carlos. For nearly everything else, Jenny preferred women.
Women, plural. Sighing, she glopped peanut butter onto the celery, silently declaring it a salad. In her experience lesbians, more than most people, were good and true and honest. They wanted partners, trust, cats, turkey-baster babies, and mortgages.
Grabbing the big spoon from the peanut butter jar, she walked toward the front door and the porch picnic table. Womanizer, Romeo, Casanova, tomcat, playboy, ladies’ man, lady-killer, swinging dick—there were a lot of roguish, obliquely charming terms for men who just loved the chase and the sex.
There were only a couple she could think of for women of that ilk. Nymphomaniac, the implied insanity right there in the title. Whore, everything implied in the title and none of it vaguely charming or flattering.
Jenny spooned a crunchy, creamy gob into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Maybe not “swinging dick.” That was more a military thing and, now that she was considering it, made no sense. It had to be a size thing, she decided. To suggest a pendant was swinging was to suggest it had length and heft. “Bobbing dicks,” for instance, would put one in mind of short silly things like Ping-Pong balls bobbing about in a bucket. “Dangling” dicks also lacked the seriousness men felt their penises deserved. Hanging dicks suggested a lack of life or movement.
At one time Dangling Rope was called Hanging Rope because, early on, boaters had seen a rope hanging down a cliff near some possibly prehistoric steps pecked into the rock. The NPS did not have size or heft issues. Hanging Rope was too like a lynching party. They’d changed it to Dangling. Dangling was happy-go-lucky.
Leaning back against the window of her apartment, the table snugged against the wall so a backless bench might be made tolerable, she crunched her dinner and enjoyed the pellucid light sifting from green to gray to blue over the far rim of the canyon. The first star—not the first to show itself, but the first to greet Jenny—did not so much pierce the sky as gently enhance it; no twinkle, all glow.
The second week Anna Pigeon had been in Dangling Rope, Jenny decided to see if she was seducible. She hadn’t decided whether she wanted to seduce her or not, but, as a person of gay consequences, she had learned it was politic to test the waters before bringing flowers and candy. Regardless of how lush and tempting the meadow, a girl had to tread carefully. Land mines were everywhere.
Some gay women gave off a vibe. Lots didn’t. More “straight” women than anyone not a sexual adventuress would guess wanted to be seduced now and again. Sort of like taking Russian folklore as an elective, Jenny surmised; a breadth class, a taste of another culture.
Jenny had plied Anna with red wine and rapt attention and, at the end of the evening, still hadn’t a clue as to which way the woman’s gate swung.
The salad was gone. Jenny wriggled from behind the table and, bowl in hand, looked over the edge of the porch and hissed.
“Hey Pinky Winky, I know you’re there,” she called into the greater darkness between her porch and that of Regis and Bethy. There was no answering stir from their resident rattlesnake.
Anna had been captivated by the snake. At first she’d been taken aback that there were five different species of rattlesnakes in the lake’s environs. Pinky was special; she was a midget rattlesnake, her body smaller than that of most rattlesnakes and of a lovely rose pink color, perfect for blending into the desert floor.
“Won’t even rattle for me?” Jenny asked. After a breath of silence she took her bowl into the kitchen, exchanged it for a bottle of Buckeye, and returned to the velvet of the night. This time she perched on the table, her feet on the bench.
Days in the desert were grand, but nothing compared to the nights. Had the brass been amenable, and the poop visible, Jenny would have started her day at sunset. Anna Pigeon loved the dark—that, at least, Jenny learned the night of her sexual reconnaissance. Jenny supposed a theater person would have to. After the third glass of wine—and given Anna’s size, Jenny half expected her to pass out on the couch at any moment—Anna volunteered that one of the things she loved about theater was that during rehearsal or a performance, she knew precisely where she, and everyone else, belonged, knew what each person’s job was and where they would, or should, be at any given moment. Glen Canyon, she said, made her feel like she’d fallen out of bed and woken up on Mars. Evidently finding this a breach of her personal code of nothing personal, Anna had then bowed like an arthritic old earl and took herself off to bed.