The Dirty Girls Social Club Read online

  “You can’t possibly still love him after what he’s done to you!”

  I say nothing, and he takes my hand, plants a small, shaky kiss on it.

  “I always wondered if it was him, the bruises. Your mother pointed out that they started when you met him, but she thought it was because you had become a young lady and weren’t comfortable in your body yet. Like a horse, she used to say, you were like a horse learning to use its long legs.”

  “He hurt me, Daddy,” I weep. “All the time. For years. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want you to think I was stupid. I hurt him, too.”

  “Ya, ya, it’s over now. Daddy’s here. I’d never think you’re stupid.”

  I need to ask him how he could do this. “Where did he go?”

  Dad drops my hand. “He killed Vilma, Sara.” He is counting his points on his fingers, one at a time, calm and collected. “He killed your unborn child. He almost killed you.” I watch my father, waiting. Dad continues, “Now he’s hiding so he doesn’t have to face justice for what he’s done. You must not talk to him anymore. He’s a coward. You have to move on and be strong, for the boys. He would have killed you if she didn’t stop him. You know that.”

  “Why is it like this, Daddy? I don’t want this to be happening. I want everything the way it was.”

  “Ay, mi hijita,” he says as he collapses in the chair next to my bed. “What am I going to do with you?”

  It’s too much. I have lost everything. Vilma, my daughter, my husband, nearly my life. I want Liz. I need to talk to her. Where is she? Why hasn’t she come yet? Has she left me, too?

  “I want Elizabeth,” I tell my father.

  “She came earlier, while you were sleeping.”

  “Please call her, make her come again.”

  “Okay, I will. Now, shh. Close your eyes, mi vida, get some rest.”

  THE NEXT TIME I wake up, she is there, Elizabeth, brilliant in a turquoise sweatshirt and dark blue jeans. I always envied this about her, the easy way she has with clothes, the way she so effortlessly looks beautiful.

  The obnoxious social worker, Allison, is here, too, and it appears they’ve been talking. I can see by the fake smile on Liz’s face that she finds Allison as annoying as I do. I want to laugh out loud, but don’t. That must be a good sign.

  I feel well enough to sit up. Elizabeth apologizes for being there, and says she needed to see me, to apologize. “It’s all my fault,” she says. “I should never have gone there. I’m sorry.”

  Allison interrupts. “Liz was just telling me the whole story of what happened. It’s not her fault. And it’s not your fault. None of this was anyone’s fault but the man who beat you. I want you both to understand that.”

  Yeah, okay, but who asked you?

  Elizabeth holds a bouquet of mylar helium balloons, with GET WELL SOON messages on them. She looks at me and smiles shyly. “Pretty tacky, huh?” she asks. “I saw the flowers Amber sent, and I knew I couldn’t top those. So I got these instead.”

  I laugh a little. “Thank you,” I say. “Speaking of Amber, where’d she get the money for all that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Her record is number one in the country.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not kidding. I thought you knew. She’s the next Janis Joplin, in Spanish.”

  “I didn’t. Wow. Good for her.”

  “Guess you two didn’t talk much?”

  “Not beyond the sucia gatherings. I don’t have much in common with Aztec vampires, you know.”

  We both laugh. It’s mean. That’s why we’re friends, me and Liz. Same sense of humor.

  “She’s about to be the most famous vampire you know,” Liz says. “Be careful what you say.”

  “Get out of here. Amber? Famous?”

  “Would I lie to you at a time like this?”

  “No, probably not.”

  “I always told you she’d make it. You didn’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, you did, didn’t you? You’ve always been nicer than I am, Liz. You’ve always looked for the best in people. Not me.”

  We look at each other for a moment, and Liz looks down first, at her feet.

  Then I ask her the burning question, in Spanish so Allison can’t understand what we’re saying.

  “Liz?”

  “Yes, Sarita?”

  “Roberto said something to me that night, the night we fought. I need to know if it was true.”

  She looks nervous. “Sure, what is it?”

  “He … he said you guys slept together in Cancún.”

  “What? No! Never!” She looks like she wants to spit.

  “You swear?”

  “I have only slept with three males in my entire life, and he wasn’t one of them. I don’t exactly enjoy men.”

  “But he was in love with you. I know it.”

  “Maybe. If he was, he’s an idiot.”

  I laugh. “What kind of women have a conversation like this in a hospital at a time like this?”

  “Ones who belong on Jerry Springer?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. I’m not angry, exactly. I don’t know. I’m numb. Her grin is electric. It’s like in those movies, where everything turns out to be a bad dream. I’m hoping I’ll wake up and everything will be different.

  I stare out the window for a few minutes. I think about things, wonder if she’s being honest with me. I mean, she lied to me about being a lesbian all these years so she’s a good liar. I don’t really care anymore. Truth is, I’d rather he slept with her than any other woman on earth. Served him right, didn’t it, falling in love with a lesbian? It’s almost funny. Isn’t that crazy? And I’m not as angry as you might think. Maybe it’s the pain meds, but I actually find it pretty funny.

  “You know what?” I ask her, finally, trying to lighten the mood, get us back on track toward some kind of normal life.

  “What?”

  “You know what hurts most of all?”

  “What?”

  I smile. “That you were never even remotely attracted to me. I mean, what’s not to want here? Look at me. I’m perfect. You never found me attractive, you said.”

  “What?”

  I laugh. “Isn’t that stupid? That’s what I’m feeling right now. Seriously rejected.”

  “I didn’t say never,” Liz says with a cautious grin. “There were … times. A few times, actually.”

  “When?”

  “Just times. Sometimes.”

  “Like when? Tell me.”

  “At Gillian’s, that first night.”

  “At Gillian’s?”

  “Yes. I remember staring at you in the orange light. You wore a long black leather coat and had one of those big preppy bows in your hair. You looked like a reject from the Brat Pack. I wanted to kiss you then.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I knew you were straight. I didn’t want Rebecca to have a seizure.”

  “When else?”

  “Graduation night. When we had that party at Usnavys’s mom’s apartment with all that disgusting fried food. When we sat out on the fire escape to get away from all the grease and cigarette smoke, to sit in the breeze, do you remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “I can tell you what you were wearing that night, too. Plaid shorts and a pink sweater set, with your pearls. You took the cardigan off because it was so hot that night, and I loved the way your shoulders looked in the night air, soft and white.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that night.”

  “I wanted to kiss you so badly.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You were engaged to Roberto. You were straight. I didn’t want to be a lesbian, I wanted to be straight. I fought it all the time. I went home and cried.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”

  “I didn’t want to l
ose you.”

  “Well, I’m a normal, curious girl. I wouldn’t have minded, you know, trying it out. College and everything. That’s what people do.”

  “No.” Liz shakes her head. “Those are the meanest words you can speak to someone like me. I’ve had my fill of curious straight women, Sara. No one screws you over quite so well as a curious straight woman.”

  “What about now?”

  “Now?”

  “Are you attracted to me now? I look like I’ve been run over by a truck, and no one will bring me any makeup. But still, I’m not hideous or something, am I? I mean, I’m a pretty good-looking woman for a woman with twins who just lost her baby and her husband, don’t you think?”

  “Sara, please, I think you need to sleep.”

  “Do you think I’m sexy?”

  Liz stares at me with pity. “I love you,” she says. “You’re my best friend. And you’re either really doped up or really tired, or both.”

  “But would you do me? That’s what I want to know.” I crack a sarcastic smile. Finally, she sees that I’m joking.

  “You’re one crazy Cubana, you know that?” she asks.

  “Tell me. Would you, right now, do me? With all the bruises, and with that stupid social worker watching? It might be an adventure.”

  “No,” she says. “You look like shit right now, Sara. And I prefer my women butch. There’s nothing butch about getting the crap beat out of you by a man. And you need to brush your teeth.”

  We laugh.

  Allison sees us laughing, and chimes in. “I’ll leave you two ladies to talk,” she says. “It’s good you’ve got someone here to lift your spirits. That’s what friends are for.”

  “Great,” I say in English, “see you later, Allison.” Then, in Spanish, I add, “Get out, you ill-dressed bitch.” Liz stares at me in disbelief. I rarely curse. Then she climbs onto the hospital bed. She’s so thin it’s like she’s hardly there. She sits next to me the rest of the night, and there is nothing remotely sexual about the way we cuddle, tell jokes, and watch terrible late-night television, though I do admit I want to kiss her a couple of times during the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, just to see what it’s like. Must be the morphine.

  Liz stays with me until dawn.

  Should I be concerned that my boyfriend seems to like my new summer season Victoria’s Secret catalog more than I do? I found it in the bathroom the other day, all rumpled and dog-eared, and it’s only May! Why are men and women both so conditioned to look at the female body? I’m getting sick of boobs and booty.

  —from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández

  rebecca

  ANDRE PICKS ME up at my new brownstone. I’ve spent the weekend moving in, and at the last minute took three days off from work to take this trip with him. It was impulsive, and something I would not have done a year ago. I would have panicked because I would have thought no one could run the magazine without me. But Andre convinced me Ella could survive a few hours without me. He assured me he could not.

  He drives a Lexus SUV this time, white and beige. He wears jeans. I’ve never seen him in jeans. They fit very well, so well my heart wants to stop. He wears stylish black loafers, a thin beige sweater, and a black leather jacket. All of it seems appropriate for a drive to Maine. I wear khaki pants with black flats, a pale pink sweater, and a black wool blazer. Like looking in a mirror. Again. I’ve packed several long flannel nightgowns, along with some racier lingerie I’ve never used; I haven’t decided yet what sort of trip this will be, though I have my hopes.

  “You look smashing,” he tells me. He hugs me, plants a friendly kiss on my cheek. Cinnamon gum? He smells so good. That smile! I want to pull him into my home, lock the doors, rip off his clothes. But I don’t. I give him a polite squeeze, and take the arm he’s offered to help me down the steep steps to the curb. He carries my suitcase. He opens the passenger side door and helps me in, then loads my bag in the back. The inside of the automobile smells like Andre, faintly spicy and clean. I haven’t felt this charged with anticipation since I was a kid on Christmas Eve.

  Because it’s a weekday, early in the afternoon, the traffic through town is light. Soon, we’re on 95, zooming north in the smooth comfort of the Lexus as a funky, sensual CD plays. The lyrics are in a language I’ve never heard.

  “What is this?” I ask him.

  “She’s a Nigerian singer called Onyeka Onwenu,” he says.

  “She’s very good.”

  “Yes. And she’s courageous. She went on a hunger strike a while back to protest not getting paid her royalties.”

  “That’s admirable. Can you understand the words?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is this Yoruba?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He smiles, pleased. “You’re full of questions today.” I’ve been doing a little research on Nigeria, ashamed after our last date that I knew so little about the place, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “What are the other languages there?” I ask, but it’s rhetorical. “Ibo and Hausa?”

  He laughs and corrects my pronunciation of both. “You’ve been studying then?”

  “A little.”

  The landscape zips by, green and lush. And we talk, easily and about a variety of topics, all the way past Salem and Topsfield. We talk all the way to Amesbury, and pause only briefly as we cross a large bridge, to marvel at the beauty of the place. It seems as if no time has elapsed at all, and suddenly we’re at the 495 fork, and minutes from the Red Maple Inn, a bed and breakfast in Freeport, owned by friends of Andre’s from England.

  “They’re quite wonderful people, Terry and Lynne,” he says as he drives the Lexus up the gravel driveway, into a clearing in the woods. “They were both in computers but just burned out on it, really. They took their money and retired. This was Lynne’s dream, to have a little place like this in the New England woods.”

  The inn is actually a compound of pale yellow Victorian houses with red and blue trim, arranged around a central garden. Here and there along paths in the garden comfortable lawn chairs have been placed. A few people sit in them now, some reading, others talking quietly over cups of tea.

  “It’s lovely,” I say, realizing as I say it that Andre’s speech patterns are already wearing off on me. I rarely use the word “lovely.” That’s a Brit thing.

  “They do all the work themselves on the garden,” he says as he pulls the SUV to a stop near a red barn. “Lynne has a real way with plants.”

  A friendly looking golden retriever lopes toward the car with a big smile on its face. Andre opens his door and calls the dog.

  “Precious! Here, Precious!”

  I open my door and step out. The air is slightly cooler than it was in Boston, clean. I take a deep breath. Overhead, the sky is a shocking blue. Andre and Precious join me. Brad was never kind to animals. He hated them, actually. Andre puts an arm over my shoulders, and Precious sniffs my shoes. I hear a snap, and look up to see a smiling couple emerge from a screen door in what appears to be the main house.

  “Andre!” the man calls out. He’s young for a retiree. I was picturing someone at least sixty-five; Terry and Lynne are my age, physically fit and attractive, in a pale, British sort of way.

  “Terry, all right?”

  “All right?” the man replies. It appears this is a greeting.

  Precious is so excited by the commotion she’s begun to bark.

  “Hush now, Precious,” the woman says, clapping once. “Go, in the house now.” The dog obeys reluctantly. She wipes a hand on her jeans, and extends it toward me, smiling broadly.

  “I’m Lynne,” she says.

  “Rebecca. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Welcome to the Red Maple,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Terry,” the man says. “Glad you could make it. How was your drive?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “With that guy at the wheel?” he jokes. “Come on in.”

  “You know
, this is the first time Andre’s been here with a girl,” Lynne teases, elbowing Andre as the four of us walk toward the house.

  “Yeah, he’s usually here with boys,” Terry deadpans.

  “Don’t mind these two,” Andre says. “They think they’re funny.”

  I smile and step into the front hall. The house is lovingly decorated in a country style that makes me instantly happy. Fresh flowers rest in simple glasses and jugs on a mishmash of antique tables. Floral patterns abound, and sunlight fills the open spaces. Several cats lounge about.

  “It’s charming,” I say. Again a word I’d never use.

  “Thanks,” Lynne says, squeezing my arm.

  Terry takes our jackets and hangs them in a hall closet, then guides us to a cozy den off the large country kitchen. “I know you’d love to sit and chat the rest of the evening,” he says with a sparkle in his eyes, “but Lynne and I have some errands to run.” He winks at Andre. “We’ll just hand off the keys now, and catch up later, maybe after dinner. You’re in the gingham suite, as requested.” Then, he adds, “Very private there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I haven’t seen Andre so in love with anyone before,” Lynne tells me in a whisper. “We know when to get out of the way.” I don’t know what to say.

  Then, as quickly as they appeared, Terry and Lynne disappear, leaving me and Andre with a set of keys. “They’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve never known two people quite like them.”

  “They’re nice,” I say. “And direct.”

  “Yes.” Andre takes my hand. “Shall we?” he asks.

  “Lead the way,” I say.

  We walk out a back door and across another splendid garden (there it is again—”splendid”), up a curving path, through a small forest to a modest house alone on a small hill overlooking a pond. The house is perfect, a dollhouse with its burgundy shutters and door.

  “It’s so cute,” I gasp. “It’s adorable.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  The Gingham House is a house unto itself, with no other rooms or people around. There’s a small living room, a kitchen, a large bedroom with a king-sized bed covered in a red, purple, and blue quilt. The frame is rustic and made of wood. Bright, woven rugs warm the gray painted wood floor. Checkered valences and tiers decorate the windows, with a spiced apple motif. The walls appear to be papered in colorful, cheery replicas of eighteenth-century designs. Cozy and quaint, a dollhouse built to scale by people with money, vision, and a sense of whimsy.