Heteroflexibility Read online

Jenna laid her hand on Mary’s. “We don’t think it will pass, but it might. We don’t want to risk it.”

  I didn’t get the big deal. “Isn’t there another state where it’s legal?”

  Jenna raised an eyebrow at me. She could tell I didn’t know anything. I had to stop talking. “Sure,” she said. “Massachusetts. But we don’t know any softball teams there.”

  “Softball teams?”

  Mary smiled at me sympathetically and reached in her purse. “Some stereotypes apply. We do play softball. In fact, we have a honeymoon game planned for the Sunday following the ceremony.” She produced a picture of a team in red uniforms. “Satan’s Hoebags.”

  I was so lost. “Satan’s…what?”

  Jenna pointed to the title on the bottom of the image. “Our team name. Satan’s Hoebags.”

  Mary poked at the picture. “There’s eight of us are getting married on the trip.”

  “Eight?”

  Jenna stared at me, frowning. “You seem a little in shock.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Mary said. “Show her the girls.”

  Jenna turned back to the image. “There’s me and Mary. And Audrey and Audrey.”

  I frantically wrote notes on the back of a brochure. “Both named Audrey?”

  Jenna nodded. “Here is Bella and Nikki. Nikki’s the comedian.”

  “And the flirt,” Mary added.

  Jenna tapped the picture on the girl’s face. “True. Nikki will keep us entertained. And these are the troublemakers, Blitz and Krieg.”

  I put the pen down. “Blitz? And Krieg?”

  “Softball nicknames,” Jenna said.

  I massaged my forehead. “Okay, so eight brides. And a game afterward. We’d be leaving Friday?”

  “That would be Halloween,” Mary said. She turned to Jenna. “I’d miss the McCain rally.”

  “Oh, darn.” Jenna tore her napkin into strips. “Mary is a Republican, despite the irony.”

  Mary scowled. “I don’t feel any irony. I am not a one-issue voter.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Abortion is just one of the reasons to support Republicans.”

  “But them being against us getting married isn’t a deal breaker.”

  Mary’s face bloomed pink. “Do we have to go into this now?”

  Jenna crumpled the napkin strips in her hand. “We wouldn’t have to be throwing this together if you were part of the fight and not part of the problem.”

  Oh boy. I plastered on a smile.

  Mary looked ready to cry. “We are not throwing this together. We’ve been planning a long time. Massachusetts wasn’t worth taking a trip. Canada was too expensive. And we agreed a commitment ceremony wasn’t enough. We wanted a real marriage certificate. I can’t help that California suddenly went the way of the Mormons.”

  Jenna shook her head. “I don’t know if I even want to get married there at this point.”

  Mary started crying for real then. “Do you still want to marry me at all?”

  I tugged a tissue out of my bag but just held it.

  Jenna put her arm around her. “Of course I do. I don’t get the rush. The protests are going to be awful.”

  “But if it fails. What will we do?”

  “It won’t fail.”

  Mary turned to me. “I’m sorry Zest. I was premature.”

  They stood up.

  I pushed my chair back, panicked. “Wait, think about it. This could be it! You don’t want to miss your moment! And the other girls probably have a say—”

  Mary paused. “That’s true. The rest of the team was making plans.”

  Jenna pulled her away from the chair. “They will do whatever we do. Besides, if worst comes to worst and we go last-minute, we can get a photographer there.”

  “But…But you said it was crazy,” I said, stuffing albums in my bag so I could follow them out, keep pleading if I had to. “You might not be able to find one.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Jenna said, pressing Mary toward the door.

  I tried to hurry alongside, but the heavy bag kept snagging on the backs of chairs, crumpled brochures falling out. They crossed the coffee shop ahead of me and pushed open the door.

  “I’ll be waiting!” I waved gaily, but they didn’t look back.

  I sank back onto a chair. I needed an apartment and my only means had just walked out.

  Chapter 4: Cheating Cheaters and the Two-Bit Hussies They Cheat With

  He’d been circling the house for half an hour.

  I watched from the upstairs window as Cade’s green Tahoe made another pass. He obviously needed something but didn’t want to come in while I was around.

  I could wait him out.

  I ate Doritos straight from the bag in total disregard for my pot belly. If only I could have gotten the fat to move to my boobs.

  In less than an hour, I had the old-lady photo shoot, one of the last two I had booked. I didn’t want to do it, but after walking out of one wedding and losing the next, I desperately needed the money.

  He passed again.

  This was ridiculous. We’d been married five freaking years, and he couldn’t talk to me?

  As the SUV disappeared around the corner, I decided to fake him out. The stairs cushioned my stocking feet as I ran downstairs to snatch my keys and stick some shoes on. I snagged the entire pile of fabric grocery bags as though I were headed for a mega shopping trip and walked outside, slowly crossing the lawn so he’d get a chance to see me.

  He took the bait, idling around the corner, parked behind a neighbor’s Hummer. As if I wouldn’t have noticed. God.

  I only circled the block once, then watched him get out of the Tahoe, look around, and hurry into the house.

  When the front door closed, I gunned the motor and pulled up behind him, blocking him in. I hopped out of the car and slammed the door so he could hear it. And panic.

  As I passed the table in the foyer, I snatched up the manila envelope I’d been served, still unopened, and headed up the stairs.

  In the master bedroom, Cade was manically stuffing underwear into a duffle bag.

  “Forget the unmentionables?” If I had noticed, I would have filled them with itching powder.

  He straightened and smoothed his t-shirt across his chest, a nervous gesture I hated, like a preening peacock, only he didn’t have the looks or the build to attract a half-dead hatchling.

  “I thought you left.”

  I let the envelope fly, for once aiming true as Robin Hood. The corner nicked him square on the nose. He backed away, holding his hand to his face.

  “Jesus, Zest.”

  “What are these?”

  He sat on the bed, rubbing the red mark blooming on his stupid skinny beak. “We have to get divorced.”

  “Without telling me? Like it’s some big secret? At a wedding?”

  “You’re always home and I—I just couldn’t be there when you got them. It was Winston’s idea.”

  “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

  “I was trying to avoid a hurtful scene.”

  “You mean for you.”

  He zipped the bag. “You make everything difficult.”

  “And that justifies what you did?”

  “If we’d talked about it—you’d have just been—like you’re being now. This was easier.”

  “Easier for you.”

  He shrugged, hefting the duffle on his shoulder with a self-assurance I’d never seen in him, bordering on a swagger. “It had to be done.”

  He caught his own reflection in the mirror and smoothed his hair, a gesture I’d never witnessed in five years of married life. Normally, like me, he wasn’t too fond of looking at himself.

  Oh my God. He was porking someone. “Who is she?”

  He hesitated, as though weighing his answer. Oh, that snake.

  “Don’t assume—”

  “How long has it been going on? A week? A month? A year?”

  He took a step forward, but
so did I, blocking the door. “How long?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I almost fainted from anger. “It matters to me. I want to know how long I’ve been stupid.”

  His shoulders drooped. He did care, a little. “You haven’t been stupid.”

  “So what is it? Is she better in bed? More successful?” Oh, God, I had to say it. “Is she pretty?”

  He grimaced, a begrudging acknowledgment of what it took to ask that. He knew me well enough.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself.”

  I rounded the bed and lunged for the phone. “Call it off.”

  “What?”

  “Call it off. Let’s figure this out first.”

  He half-smiled. “You asking me to stay?”

  Oh, the smugness of that little shit. “No, I want to make this long and painful for you. So call it off. I want to hear you tell her.”

  The grin became a smirk. “I can’t.”

  I held out the receiver. “Sure you can. Call her up, tell her it’s over, you’re little affair is out, you’re busted, and you’ve got dirty laundry to manage before you can hang a new clothesline.”

  He backed away. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You, taking over.”

  I shoved the phone into his narrow chest. “Do it now.”

  He refused to take it. “She’s pregnant.”

  The blow was so much like a physical punch that I had to suck in air. And yet he stood there, calm and composed, like a strutting cock. Son of a bitch. “How seventeen of you.”

  “Zest…”

  “You said you didn’t want a baby.”

  “It just happened.”

  “You just didn’t want a baby with me. Would it be too ugly for you? Couldn’t stomach some frizz-headed, pinched-faced devil child?”

  “Zest.”

  “I’d hate to see how small a pecker your son will end up with.”

  “Good God, Zest. How is anyone supposed to love you with a mouth like that?”

  I tossed the phone on the bed. People used to say that about my mom.

  I used to say that about my mom.

  “I’m leaving now.” He stepped toward the door.

  “So that’s it?”

  He turned around, somewhat helplessly, now looking more like a lost little kid than a reproductive lothario. “I think so.”

  “You won’t be back here?”

  “I’ll have to come back eventually. The baby should have a house, and you can’t exactly afford it on your own.”

  I sank down on the bed. “I didn’t think it would end this badly.”

  He disappeared through the door, not even pausing as he called out, like an afterthought, “At least there’s no love lost.”

  His footsteps on the stairs faded, followed by the front door opening and closing. I picked up a framed photograph from the dresser, me and that traitor on our wedding day. We were laughing, and the photographer had managed to capture a miracle—both of us looking pretty good, and happy. That very picture, and how I’d felt upon seeing it, was a big part of why I decided to quit the job I hated so much and become a photographer.

  I never had a solid swing but it had been a good day for my aim.

  The frame flew straight through the back window in a glass-splintering crash.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  Chapter 5: The Wicked Women Sisterhood

  The three women looked terrible, bloated in oversized purple dresses, like a Mardi Gras float. I pictured their inflated bodies hovering over Bourbon Street, tethered to teams of human ballast, scuttling to keep them on course amidst the crowds of bead-throwers.

  I didn’t hate old ladies in general, but the ringleader, Marge, had made my mother miserable, loud and rich and full of opinions. Even at the funeral, Marge had dominated, taking over the flowers and the music and the food.

  Normally I wouldn’t have booked them, especially on a Sunday, but my dad had actually called and asked me to do it, as a favor. Marge had contacted me the next day, arranging for me to take a picture of her “sisterhood,” who had gathered in Austin for a girls’ weekend.

  The biddies wandered about the studio, applying makeup and exclaiming over each other. I mostly hid behind backgrounds and umbrellas, trying to keep my mouth shut. These painted ladies raised the Nellie Olsen in my soul.

  I hadn’t actually seen Marge since the service twelve years ago, when I was fifteen and gangly and everyone wanted to pat my head and give me tissues, despite my dry eyes. I couldn’t imagine the fawning they would force me to endure if they caught any hint of marriage trouble. I had to hold it together even though at this very moment, Cade was probably searching for the spare keys to move my car so he could escape. These busybodies must not find out.

  “Zest?” a sandpaper voice crooned.

  I popped out from my dark corner. It was Marge, dragging jewelry from a bag.

  “Tell me which necklace is better, the red beads or the purple chain.” Marge held the strands over her ample bosom.

  Both were hideous. “Um, gosh. Why not both?”

  Marge beamed. “I like your style!” She turned her back and handed me the jewelry. “Do you mind, dear?”

  Her perfume made my head rush, sweet and strong, like rotting lilies. I fastened the necklaces and she turned, striking a Betty Boop pose, knees together, bent at the waist, hands on her thighs.

  “You look fabulous,” I managed.

  “We all do!” she said, straightening and walking back to the other women. “Harriet, Genevieve, isn’t Zest the spitting image of her mother?”

  They murmured agreement. Genevieve patted her hair, a helmet that could easily be confused with taxidermy. Harriett bent over to rummage through a bag, and I had to avert my eyes from the strain of her purple dress over her wide, wide hips. She turned to reveal an inkjet-printed sign that read, “The Wicked Women Sisterhood.”

  I adjusted the position of a flash. “So how do you know each other?”

  Marge dropped heavily onto a stool. “We all volunteered at the shop where your mother worked. And we’ve all been married to each other’s husbands.” She sneered at Harriet. “At least in the Biblical sense.”

  Harriet tugged out a mirror and applied unnecessary rouge. She already looked like Raggedy Anne. “Oh, sit on it, Marge. We’re all big nasty hussies. It would have been fine, but we got old, and the men moved on to other other women.”

  Genevieve crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Little gold digging bitches.”

  “Not in front of Zest!” Marge protested. “Think of her dearly departed mother!”

  The women all did a sign of the cross.

  “We still have a little Catholic in us,” Marge said. “But it’s like snow in Texas, it doesn’t stick.” She pointed to the other ladies. “We could have hated each other, but we have too many kids in common. You know, the village raising the child.”

  So they had all screwed each other’s husbands. Just what I needed at this moment.

  Harriet put her arm around Marge. “Marge’s Timmy is half brother to my Annie.”

  Marge faked-smiled back at her. “And my Angela is half sister to Genevieve’s Johnny.”

  This was too much. All I could manage was a muffled, “Wow.”

  Harriet pulled away and straightened her neckline. “It goes on. It’s possible that some of the paternity is…” she tossed a knowing look at Marge, “in question.”

  Marge threw up her hands. “Water under the bridge!”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “After we were set aside like old dishrags, we banded together.”

  “And now we’re all fast friends!” Marge said, applying an additional layer of scarlet lipstick. She already looked like something from Munchkin land, short, wide, and garishly bright. I remembered my mom complaining about her, enduring all the volunteer ladies’ comments as they did their shifts at the resale store where Mom was the only paid employee. They came from a lot more money than our c
rummy little Dallas suburb. But Marge was the worst.

  “Well, ladies,” I said. “I’ve set out stools. Let’s start arranging you.”

  Harriet dashed forward. “The boas! Don’t forget the boas!”

  Marge produced a bag and removed great tufts of feathers in bright pink.

  “You sure picked a lot of color.” I cranked the backdrop roller and changed the plain white canvas to a vividly painted Parisian scene. Sometimes you just have to give in to schmaltz.

  “Much better!” Marge crooned. “We’re in gay Pareee!”

  “I thought you’d like that,” I said, and shifted the background light a few feet higher. Marge and Harriet were balding a bit, their glossy black dye jobs shot through with pale scalp. I was going to be Photoshopping through the night.

  “She’s one of the best,” Marge said. “Any daughter of Fay would be.”

  Yeah, a self-taught photographer with less than a year’s experience was one of the best. I tried to accept the sentiment without the whiplash of inner sarcasm. She’s so like her mother, they used to say when I popped out some smart-aleck remark as a teen. It definitely got worse after the funeral. Perhaps, like a witch, or Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mom’s death somehow caused a transfer of her snark to me.

  I switched on the CD player, set to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  The women immediately began dancing together, swishing their boas and striking what they thought were dramatic poses.

  “Okay, everyone, right here!” I called. “Look into my eyes. That’s it.” The women fluttered around the set manically, blowing kisses and showing beefy thighs with roadmaps of varicose veins. More Photoshop ahead.

  Traditional arrangements seemed futile. I snapped shot after shot, trying to capture good sides and the least horrid angles of their broad waistlines, until their foreheads began to glisten.

  I shut off the main softbox. “That’s a wrap, ladies.”

  The women chucked the hot boas and switched to comfortable shoes.

  “So, Zest, I heard you got married,” Marge said. “Was that the young man we passed coming in?”

  “It was—is. My husband. Yes.” Crap. I was rattled. I busied myself with the camera to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. Still, in my periphery, I could see them all glancing at each other. Not much got past these women. Even if there wasn’t any drama, they’d manufacture some.