“inappropriate behavior.” On the assumption that C.J. doesn’t
despise me anymore, I called and left a message on her machine.
“Call me if you want to talk about any of this business with Coach Johansen.”
She hasn’t called yet.
Neither has Michael Avila.
’Til next time,
V
June 16, later
I found a message on my machine today. Three words. “You’re a bitch.” A woman’s voice. I didn’t recognize it. I replayed the
message again. I held my ear against the answering machine. I checked Caller I.D. The call that came in at 9:20 was marked
“blocked.”
The phone rang and I snatched it up at once. “What do you want?” I snapped.
“Hey, baby. Calm down. It’s just me.” It was Diana.
“Oh. Diana.” I let out a long breath.
“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m stopping at Provence for takeout. How does mushroom pâté sound to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite, Diana. Can I get a rain check on this?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. We’re going to celebrate.”
Diana arrived with a bottle of sparkling cider and a brown shopping bag from Provence, a tiny take-out place on Union where
the counter help is haughty and a loaf of bread costs six dollars. Her mouth dropped open as she noticed my hacked-away hair.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
“No, I’m not dressing up as Peter Pan for Halloween,” I answered. “And I’m too fat to be a Holocaust victim.”
“You silly goose.” Diana reached out to run her palmover my crew cut. “I mean, does this new hair signal a shift in, shall we say, your romantic inclinations?”
“Am I suddenly a lesbian? No.”
“Pity.” Diana shucked off her shoes and padded ahead to the dining room in perfectly pedicured feet. She unpacked a crusty
baguette, mushroom pâté, tortellini, and two dense slices of chocolate torte. “Incidentally, Valerie, you’re not fat. You’re
delicious.” She pinched my ass. I swatted her hand away. I still don’t understand why Diana plays with me this way; surely
there are enough gay women in this town to keep her busy.
Diana moved through my kitchen quickly, pulling out plates and wineglasses, silverware and napkins. She knew exactly where
to find everything and I remembered with a shudder how she had insinuated herself into our family as Roger’s “research assistant.”
“Tell me the truth, Diana,” I started.
“Of course, darling,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “What is it?”
“When you were working with Roger, were you actually working?”
“Umm …” She slid the pâté onto a plate and licked her finger. “Yes. Sort of.” She looked at me. “Roger didn’t have a lot of
work for me. But he knew I needed a job. Mostly we just talked. The more he talked, the less I liked him. He bitched about
you. Bragged about his latest conquests. Talked stocks.” She plopped the tortellini into a bowl. “That’s how I knew about
thegold. Roger loved talking about money. And he loved spending it on everyone but you.”
I was surprised to feel my eyes sting with tears. Diana looked at my face. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You’re still tenderhearted.”
She brightened. “Hey. Look who’s crying now. Your ex is still in the slammer and he doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“How do you know he’s still in jail?”
“He called me, the jerk. He asked me to bail him out. I told him forget it. I told him that he should sit there and think
about the mistakes he’d made and get right with his Higher Power.” Diana grinned at me and poked me with her toe.
She told me that Roger couldn’t pull his bail money together. His father wouldn’t bail him out. None of his siblings would
help either. And once he gets out in a week or two, he’ll be homeless and without a job. He’s not trained to do anything except
sponge off his parents, and it’s unlikely he’ll score big with another play.
despise me anymore, I called and left a message on her machine.
“Call me if you want to talk about any of this business with Coach Johansen.”
She hasn’t called yet.
Neither has Michael Avila.
’Til next time,
V
June 16, later
I found a message on my machine today. Three words. “You’re a bitch.” A woman’s voice. I didn’t recognize it. I replayed the
message again. I held my ear against the answering machine. I checked Caller I.D. The call that came in at 9:20 was marked
“blocked.”
The phone rang and I snatched it up at once. “What do you want?” I snapped.
“Hey, baby. Calm down. It’s just me.” It was Diana.
“Oh. Diana.” I let out a long breath.
“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m stopping at Provence for takeout. How does mushroom pâté sound to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite, Diana. Can I get a rain check on this?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. We’re going to celebrate.”
Diana arrived with a bottle of sparkling cider and a brown shopping bag from Provence, a tiny take-out place on Union where
the counter help is haughty and a loaf of bread costs six dollars. Her mouth dropped open as she noticed my hacked-away hair.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
“No, I’m not dressing up as Peter Pan for Halloween,” I answered. “And I’m too fat to be a Holocaust victim.”
“You silly goose.” Diana reached out to run her palmover my crew cut. “I mean, does this new hair signal a shift in, shall we say, your romantic inclinations?”
“Am I suddenly a lesbian? No.”
“Pity.” Diana shucked off her shoes and padded ahead to the dining room in perfectly pedicured feet. She unpacked a crusty
baguette, mushroom pâté, tortellini, and two dense slices of chocolate torte. “Incidentally, Valerie, you’re not fat. You’re
delicious.” She pinched my ass. I swatted her hand away. I still don’t understand why Diana plays with me this way; surely
there are enough gay women in this town to keep her busy.
Diana moved through my kitchen quickly, pulling out plates and wineglasses, silverware and napkins. She knew exactly where
to find everything and I remembered with a shudder how she had insinuated herself into our family as Roger’s “research assistant.”
“Tell me the truth, Diana,” I started.
“Of course, darling,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “What is it?”
“When you were working with Roger, were you actually working?”
“Umm …” She slid the pâté onto a plate and licked her finger. “Yes. Sort of.” She looked at me. “Roger didn’t have a lot of
work for me. But he knew I needed a job. Mostly we just talked. The more he talked, the less I liked him. He bitched about
you. Bragged about his latest conquests. Talked stocks.” She plopped the tortellini into a bowl. “That’s how I knew about
thegold. Roger loved talking about money. And he loved spending it on everyone but you.”
I was surprised to feel my eyes sting with tears. Diana looked at my face. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You’re still tenderhearted.”
She brightened. “Hey. Look who’s crying now. Your ex is still in the slammer and he doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“How do you know he’s still in jail?”
“He called me, the jerk. He asked me to bail him out. I told him forget it. I told him that he should sit there and think
about the mistakes he’d made and get right with his Higher Power.” Diana grinned at me and poked me with her toe.
She told me that Roger couldn’t pull his bail money together. His father wouldn’t bail him out. None of his siblings would
help either. And once he gets out in a week or two, he’ll be homeless and without a job. He’s not trained to do anything except
sponge off his parents, and it’s unlikely he’ll score big with another play.
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