Out of Orange: A Memoir Read online

  The counselor believed it would be in my best interest to start wearing clothes little girls should be wearing and wanted to enlist my father’s help in making that happen. Dad disagreed, and in my best interest, enrolled me in a Catholic girls’ school. Uniforms made the issue moot. I suspect this swift resolution actually came from my mother. The men’s shirt incident just gave her license to do something she had wanted to do since I’d entered first grade.

  This was her opportunity to get me into a better place, where I could meet the right boys and make the right friends. Mom hadn’t gone to public school. She was a spoiled Southern belle and former mistress of the Birmingham Civic Ballet Company. She’d been raised in a very religious Irish Catholic family in George Wallace’s backyard: Birmingham, Alabama. Mom had some very distinctly Southern and snobby notions about how to raise a little girl in the world, and she felt her little girl needed the kind of grooming nuns and priests could provide.

  Mom had also been noisily suffering from a troubling void any good Catholic woman of the seventies experienced when they didn’t attend Mass every Sunday or make sure their children did. Her daughter’s expensive enrollment in a Catholic school alleviated that guilt a little. Church had been taken from Mother’s Sundays by my father’s refusal to go. Dad didn’t try to bar her from going to church on her own, but she would not go without him. If she didn’t go, then my sister, Hester; my brother, Gene; and I didn’t have to go to church either, or Sunday school.

  Dad had been raised a poor farm boy in Kansas, and he had his own rich history with the Catholic Church. Unlike Mom’s spoiled upbringing in an otherwise empty nest, he had five younger brothers and sisters with whom he had endured an impoverished existence. He loved his brothers and sisters madly and wouldn’t have traded any one of them for anything, but he didn’t want to create the same-size litter his parents had been obliged to create. He also wanted to have sex more than a few times in his life.

  Ironically, the Catholic Church had paid for his education in the seminary where he had nearly become a priest. His passion for Christ hadn’t matched his passion for sex, and with his thirst for knowledge sated, he had been unable to blindly accept the man-made rules of his church as he had done all his life. He’d chosen a more practical vocation and married Mom in 1960.

  In 1975, Dad had stumbled into a final intellectual conflict with the men who ruled the church and had decided that the Catholic Church, as an institution, was insane. It had no place in his life. We stopped going to church when I was in third grade. In any case, the Catholic school choice and the uniform that came with it worked for both my parents in different ways, so I went to Saint Ursula Villa for my eighth grade.

  For middle school students, eighth grade is like their senior year—a strange time to be uprooted. I hated the uniform, hated the school, and hated all the pretentious brats I didn’t know. Money and affluence make no difference; eighth-graders anywhere are fierce little monsters. They thrive in packs, and I didn’t have a pack. Fortunately, it was only eight months before summer arrived and grade school was over. High school turned everyone into new students, not just me. I was advanced to Saint Ursula Academy, an all-girls high school—the perfect place for a young blossoming lesbian, you would think. But no, I left there my senior year. I had to go back to public school, at Anderson High School. I think this lifelong problem with who I was is what accounted for my alarm every time I looked in a mirror and saw who they had always wanted me to be.

  Having forgotten about being spooked, I dimmed the lights and looked around my hotel room. All that was missing was a crackling fire, in a fireplace of course. The phone sat in its cradle on the desk, patiently waiting for me to summon it into action. I picked up the receiver, listened for a dial tone, and pressed nine plus the first three numbers for any phone in Northampton. I knew Phillip’s number and Joan’s by heart but didn’t know which to call. I had been waiting so long, dreaming of the moment when I could talk to my best friend or ex-lover again. I set the receiver back into its cradle and rested my head in my palms. I could hear the fast thump, thump, pa-dump of my heart. The wind picked up outside and shook my window. I heard light taps on the glass pane. Damn it! I didn’t want to get stuck in the hotel all by myself, and now the storm had started. I called Phillip. He was my dependable cure for loneliness and a much better impulse than my misguided desire to call Joan.

  “Hey. Are you hungry? I’m starved.” My cheery invitation was greeted with silence.

  “Cleary?” Phillip sounded completely indifferent, not at all surprised by the unexpected reemergence of his vanished, possibly presumed dead friend. He always sounded that way though. “Are you in town?” His voice got just a tiny bit higher at the end of his question. It wasn’t enough input for me to determine whether the pitch change meant I’m going to kill you or Yippee, you’re all right! I couldn’t be sure how angry Phillip might be at me for ditching him, leaving him almost penniless in Chicago, and not communicating with him as to my whereabouts or well-being. I had told him I would be gone for only a week.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m here. Bolognese?” As soon as I said it, my stomach growled. This was the dish I ordered every time I ate at Spoleto, the restaurant where I had worked with Phillip until we had both taken off for Chicago in January.

  “I’m broke.” Phillip had a hint of irritation in his tone now.

  “Come on. I’m buying. It’s my apology.” I giggled. I’m not one for giggling; it just happened, like a drunken hiccup. I hoped Phillip’s forgiveness could be bought for a lot less than a dinner at Spoleto, but it’s what I wanted.

  “What time?” he asked.

  “Now’s good.” Phillip hung up as soon as I said it. He had horrible phone etiquette and wasn’t much more polite face-to-face.

  Phillip was my eye-candy sidekick. He had been handsome in the black-and-whites we used to wear at Spoleto. He came across as a mildly snobby Italian, though he was neither snobby nor Italian. The snobbism was an unintentional indifference. The Italian look relied on context; outside of Spoleto he was a generic-brand American. He had dark brown hair and brown eyes, and he was pale, always pale. He carried himself lightly, but he was not effeminate—sort of like a skinny rock star but without the long hair. He actually looked a little like Henry, but looks were all they had in common. Phillip was the straight version, he was an artist, and instead of being the temple of self-control, he drank too much, chain smoked, and did recreational drugs like it was the eighties.

  He had recently become my best friend. We had a lot in common. We were both unfashionable scotch drinkers, meat eaters, and cigarette smokers. We had both followed our girlfriends to Northampton from Provincetown; his current girlfriend was an old schoolmate of mine from Boston and a former lesbian I’d had a crush on; Phillip and I worked at the same restaurant, the same shifts; we were both about to graduate from our twentysomethings with nothing to show for it; and we were surrounded by a population of students whose bright futures were practically guaranteed by their pedigree, provenance, or trust funds.

  As soon as Phillip hung up the phone, the quiet of my hotel room tried to swallow me. My wild imagination started churning away again, and I was spooked anew. I took the manila envelope full of cash from my Tumi bag and secured it in the room’s safe, then prepared myself for a dash to the lobby. I peeped out the eyehole of my door before opening it, opened it, and found the hall was still deserted.

  I couldn’t keep this secret from everyone, not after everything I had just been through. I had done something so completely out of the ordinary, survived something I thought was amazing, and it was behind me. I was all the way back in Northampton, back in the fold of my friends, and far, far away from my co-conspirators in my drug-smuggling adventure. I could never have told anyone about my trip with my co-conspirators around.

  I had fantasized about my return to Northampton the whole way there. Honestly, I had been fantasizing about my return to Northampton since I had left in January. The
story line I was returning with had changed quite a bit, but I was still returning victorious. It was just a different kind of victory than I had planned on when I’d set out for Chicago with Phillip. My bullshit cover story would be fine for most everyone else. But I would tell Phillip the real story. He had been there in Chicago when I got the sudden invitation to meet my soon-to-be brother-in-law and he knew about the rather odd job offer too. He knew what I had run off to do and it wasn’t to work as an art critic.

  The snow was falling when I left the hotel and it had become much colder. The gas lanterns that flank Main Street had come to life, and halos formed in their light, caught by the falling snow. An inch had already fallen and there was as much as a foot expected. At the moment, it was very close to being a whiteout. I could only see halfway up the hill when I got to the intersection of State and Main, and when I squinted, all I could really see were the lit entries of a few still-open businesses. The buildings themselves had vanished into the murky dark.

  I walked out of the cold and damp wind into Spoleto. Once inside, I could see as little of the world outside the picture windows as I had been able to see of the restaurant’s interior from the street. But the sweat on the windows that had told of how warm the restaurant would be inside, now that I was inside, told of how very cold it was outside. The world looked bitter, watery, and white. I scanned the main room of Spoleto and the immense rectangular granite bar, which took up a large part of the space. There was no more of the waiting-to-be-seated crowd, and the seats at the bar I liked were open.

  I walked to my old barstool, the one I used to take my shifters at when I was done with work, and sat down. Larry, a permanent resident of Northampton and my favorite waiter, was bartending. It took him a moment to realize who had just asked him for a short Dewar’s and soda, but as soon as he did, his eyes lit up and he poured my drink. He handed me the scotch and was about to say something.

  “Hey.” I looked over my shoulder, knowing full well who had whispered it. Joan sat down next to me, looking for a sign that it was all right to remain in the seat. I smiled and she slid the rest of the way onto the stool. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked and grabbed my hand. I nodded and looked down at her lap, where her hand covered mine. “I’m so sorry.” I could swear she actually sighed this.

  I felt disgust and deep sadness simultaneously. I remembered the “I’m sorry” from months ago. I had felt completely blindsided. I had been sure that we were in love with each other, very in love with each other, not some one-sided obsession that the ultimate development in our relationship had suggested. It had been the most irrationally timed breakup imaginable. We had gone to Paris together. (This, by the way, had been my first trip overseas, not hers.) Joan had said something. I can’t recall exactly what, but it had meant our affair was ending, right there in the City of Love and on the morning I was to fly home. She had planned to stay behind for a few weeks, so I didn’t even have time to change her mind. I had hoped when she came back from Paris we would work it out. It seemed crazy that we would not. But by the time she’d come back, she didn’t want to see me.

  That was months before. I thought, mistakenly, that enough distance, absurdity, and time had passed that the only thing I felt for her would be spite and anger. I was wrong. It wasn’t spite or anger I felt as she spoke so alluringly about the trivial developments in her simple, perfect world. She was just so goddamned beautiful! Her watery blue eyes, perfect lips, and bubblegum tongue were cruel. My heart ached all over again.

  Before I realized it, she was done with our conciliatory drink and she was on her way to join her waiting companion outside. I knew the guy she was with; he was an older man I recognized as a professional contact of hers. “Call me.” Two whispery words in my ear and I was all hers again—her toy to break and discard. I probably should have picked up my fork and started stabbing, but instead we made a date.

  Joan left the restaurant, and Phillip walked into Spoleto about ten minutes later and found me at the bar, already slightly blurred with Dewar’s and soda. I was yacking away with Larry, the bartender, who had commented on my tan, my weight loss, and my outfit. A few of my former coworkers had stopped by for hugs, kisses, or chatty banter. Phillip was patient for a minute. Then he sat down and ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks, shooing the bartender off. He wanted to know about my trip, why I hadn’t called, did I know how freaked out he had been? The little bit he did know guaranteed he would not settle for anything less than everything, not the bullshit lie he knew I had been telling the bartender.

  I didn’t lose forty pounds from being a bundle of chickenshit nerves, starved and sick with Giardia for six solid weeks. No, that was intentional, a strict diet. The way I told Phillip the story, the lackluster training by example Henry had afforded me became ninja warrior preparation. I had been to Paris, to Brussels, to the Ivory Coast of Africa, and to Soule. I hadn’t been to Soule; I just threw it in for color. I told him about my cover story. How I was pretending to work for an art expert at a publishing company in Paris. The story was I assisted a woman who was assembling an art anthology made up of graffiti from around the world, which I would find and photograph for her for comparison to current movements in art.

  I had adapted my tale from Henry’s artful cover story. I had known Henry for a long time. He had been my sister’s friend for years, and I had envied his existence for as long. Phillip knew who Henry was too. I guess from his Provincetown days. But almost everything we had thought we knew about him was made-up bullshit. I told Phillip that Henry had been my trainer and that he wasn’t actually a successful art dealer; that was his cover story. He was sort of an art dealer, though, but he only represented one artist. That little distinction was what made it so effortless when he lied to Customs about the purpose of his trips.

  He would say he had been visiting wherever we’d come from on business. He could tell a Customs agent a whole story about his trip without lying once. His story would be backed up by trinkets and memorabilia from each of the shows or galleries he attended. The point of all of this effort was to get past the first potential obstacle to success. If, for some reason, I was selected by a Customs agent to be hassled, coming back into the United States, a poorly researched or delivered cover story would be my undoing.

  The restaurant had emptied out a little and I spoke more quietly with Phillip to match the lowering volume of our surroundings. We had opted to dine at the bar, so I had to be careful not to be overheard. In the mirrors that spanned the restaurant’s walls, I saw a waitress I knew was a big gossip come up behind us with our food. I made sure she heard a few positive tidbits as she approached.

  She took our salads and served our dinner plates, then asked if we wanted Parmesan on our pasta. We leaned back so the gossipy waitress could reach our plates and grate the cheese. “Life is treating you well in Chicago?” The waitress beamed her famously fake smile as she delivered the compliment and cheese. I nodded a dismissive affirmation, easily made my joy to see her look equally fake, and leaned back into my conversation with Phillip when she was done grating a mountain of Parmesan.

  When she left, I continued my story while Phillip gobbled up his dinner: shrimp scampi on a bed of linguini. I told him about having to actually go to art exhibits and galleries in Paris, talk to artists, and learn a bunch of shit. I sarcastically added how my high school French came in handy. Then I told him about Africa, how I went on these amazing expeditions in search of art and graffiti. I was copying Henry’s lead and experiencing a life to match my cover story. If I had to tell the lie to Customs, it wasn’t going to be a complete lie.

  Larry dropped off two glasses of wine. Phillip had a cold glass of pinot grigio and I had a ruby-red glass of Chianti Classico. I took a sip and ate a couple of bites of the angel hair. Phillip touched the sleeve of my jacket, examining the fabric, and said, “Nice.” I told him about shopping in Paris, looking for the clothes I would wear on the plane. I described my dress rehearsals for my role, in Brussels and agai
n in Paris. I would get all dressed up and go out to the art shows. I had pretended to be someone I was not, and practicing the role had made it real to me. I had also needed some practice getting used to walking in dress heels. My tomboy gait hadn’t fit the image Henry had been hoping for, and it had taken a little work and a lot of blisters to correct. Phillip knew I was unaccustomed to the heel torture most women had overcome by my age. I don’t think he had ever seen me dressed up according to society’s standards before.

  We finished our meal and Larry asked to take our plates away. When he came back to wipe away our crumbs, we ordered cappuccinos.

  I told Phillip more about Africa, meeting the Nigerian whom my sister was in love with. I described the scary but impressive train of dinner guests at his huge table every night: an Italian general of some sort, the secretary of something-or-other for the Nigerian government, a council member from Cotonou. I told him about the armed compound I’d stayed at in Benin, the days spent at the round pool and the beach at the Sheraton, the voodoo markets, the marabout priests and Sufis who counseled our host. I tried to describe the flocks of happy kids in Ganvié, a village built atop Lake Nokoué. I recounted one drive up the coast and the fishing tribe we watched pull in the day’s catch someplace beyond Porto-Novo. I told of our crossing the border into Togo at a chaotic roadside station and my quandary about the hordes of haggard people trudging by with everything they owned in tow. I had too many vivid memories to recount adequately in one sitting and so many unanswered questions about the things I had seen. I told him about the flight back to Chicago and how scared I had been. I told him about getting up before dawn on the day I was to fly.