Heteroflexibility Read online

  “We sense,” said Harriet, touching her fingertips together and pressing them to her lips, “something amiss.”

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “Fay always did say little Zest was sensitive,” Marge said.

  “How long have you been married, dear?” Harriet asked.

  I swallowed. Keep it together, girl. “Five years.”

  “Still room to grow,” Marge said. “Good years yet.”

  “You two still jiggling the chandeliers?” Harriet asked, swinging her hips and winking.

  My face flamed. “Yes, of course.” I didn’t sound convincing, even to me.

  “Uh oh,” Genevieve said. “Trouble in the bedroom? That’s the first sign.”

  Harriet took my hand and led me to a stool. “Spill it.”

  Oh no, no, no. I would not get sucked into their little society of men haters. Even if I did, sort of, despise men at the moment. Besides, they might call my dad before I got the chance.

  I spun on the stool and slipped over to a light box, snapping off the modeling light. “I’m fine. Really. So tell me, should I put the proofs online or mail you some hard copies?”

  Marge shook her head. “Never mind that. You can tell us about your wretched home.”

  I closed my eyes a moment. I had no idea how to get out of this. I tried to circle them and make a break for the door, but the women had closed in.

  “Is he working late? Taking sudden trips?” Marge asked.

  “Listening to popular songs? Eating or drinking new things?” Harriet added.

  “Does he pay attention to you in random spurts, then seem distracted?” Marge asked.

  “You guys really are experienced,” I said.

  “We’re the best,” Genevieve said, kicking their awful little sign.

  “Does he have a lawyer yet?” Marge asked. “He who files last loses.”

  What did that mean? Lose what? “He served me papers yesterday. Is that bad?”

  Harriet drew in closer. “Now listen here, and listen good. Texas is a horrid place for divorce. A no-fault state. No alimony. You don’t have any kids, so you can’t even squeeze him there.”

  “I don’t want to squeeze him—”

  “Did you support him for a while?” Marge’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, I worked while he did grad school.”

  The women nodded, and I felt panic rising. “I don’t think he used me. He makes a lot more money than me now!”

  “Ah, good, good,” Harriet said. “Whose name is the house in?”

  “Both, I think.”

  “Also good.” She moved in close. “Now, once the papers are served, if he’s playing hard ball, your assets will be frozen. You won’t be able to spend any money above usual expenses. If he’s been paying the bills, you’re going to have to figure out how to work the living arrangements.”

  “You need to look for any strange purchases he’s been making,” Marge said. “Furniture, a deposit somewhere. He might be supporting some hussy.” She glared at Harriet, who shrugged.

  I hadn’t thought of that. “I can’t make the mortgage on my own. And he wants the house—” My throat closed. I couldn’t confess the part about the baby.

  “Girl, you have to protect yourself,” Marge said. Just like at the funeral, she handed me a tissue even though I wasn’t crying.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Harriet said. “Women are strong. And at least without any kids, you aren’t stuck with him any longer than the ink dries on the decree.”

  Chapter 6: Pack, Rats

  By late morning on Monday, the boxes covered all available floor space. I couldn’t pack the studio, as I had a shoot the next day, but after that, I had nothing booked. I only ever seemed to work in short bursts.

  The living room seemed hopelessly his. Furniture, part of his grandmother’s estate. Artwork, his mother’s. Television, a gift from his dad.

  Ellen’s show was on. Hilary Swank showed off an Ellen haircut and had even dressed like her, doing an amazing job of mimicking her dance moves and gestures. Normally I would have been mesmerized, but today I couldn’t care less.

  I walked away and wandered down the hallway, mentally noting things I would take with me. Mainly small stuff. I had no place for furniture right now even if it was mine.

  I took photos off the walls and set them in a stack. None of me and Cade, but one of my dad, some macro shots of flowers, a skyline of Austin. I had one old image up, a family shot shortly before Mom’s cancer, just me and my parents. I was thirteen, gangly but still hoping I would fill out. I was still hoping.

  I should call Dad, tell him about the divorce. He’d want to know. Besides Marge would probably tattle.

  Oh, those women. I still wanted to shudder, recalling how I’d been forced to endure their endless hugging and patting and squeezing and consoling. How had they wormed that confession out of me? A parrot could have kept its mouth shut better. Brrok! Zest has got a secret! Brrok!

  I shoved the pictures into a frame box. Fern was due any minute to help me pack. She’d been my friend since college, the only one that was mine and not also Cade’s. Couple friends were worthless at a time like this, all worried about taking sides. Fern had offered to put me up in her condo for a while, sympathetic about me losing the wedding.

  I turned to the kitchen. I’d made very few dinners here. I wasn’t any sort of domestic goddess. We’d eaten out mostly, once Cade had a good job. I really had supported him through grad school, and he had given me my turn a year ago, letting me start my own business while he supported me. Until now.

  The manila envelope lay on the counter. I ripped open the top. The words “Petition for Divorce” were enough to make me suck in a breath.

  I glanced out the window at a passing car to see if it was Fern, then returned to the papers.

  “In the matter of the marriage of Cade Renald (petitioner) and Zest Renald (respondent).”

  My eyes flitted shut involuntarily.

  I thought of Winston on the day of the wedding, rushing down the hallway to tell me not to worry, that Cade had just been delayed. His hair had flapped in his mad dash, and I found myself laughing so hard I could scarcely hear what he was saying.

  We’d had to rush the pictures, something that would have driven me batty as a photographer, due to Cade’s tardiness. Later, after the reception, when we entered the hotel room (he had tried to carry me but the dress was too slippery, and I kept falling out of his grasp), I learned why he was late. He’d filled the room with star lilies. Their perfume was so strong, we almost choked on it.

  “I love them,” I had said, coughing and laughing.

  He smacked me on the back. “You’re going to think I tried to kill you with flowers.”

  No one had ever done anything romantic like that for me before. I had been so amazed, knowing I looked okay for once, the veil hiding my frizzy hair that refused to iron flat, the beaded dress rearranging my flat chest and doughy waist into something that resembled a normal figure. On that day, I’d felt worthy.

  Back to reality. I opened my eyes and flipped through the pages of the petition. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. On the last page, the word “Prayer” made me pause.

  I read the smaller print.

  I ask the Court to grant me a divorce because the marriage has become insupportable due to discord or conflict of personalities that destroys the legitimate ends of the marital relationship and prevents any reasonable expectation of reconciliation.

  That did sound a bit like a prayer, a shot in the dark, a Hail Mary, football style, not the rosary beads variety.

  I dropped the pages back onto the table. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do with these papers. It didn’t have signature flags, or action items, or instructions.

  “Hellooooo! Zest, baby! You here?”

  Fern stood in the doorway, the sun brightening her spunky bleached ponytails nearly to white, decked in a totally Fern outfit—hot pink halter and black leather skirt,
pink-striped stockings and knee boots.

  Sometimes it was all I could do to keep my self-respect in light of that girl’s utter physical perfection. I’d have hated her in most any other situation. Maybe I did hate her.

  I shoved the papers back in the envelope and shook my head. “You must be on the set today.”

  “The director likes me to look the part.”

  “Of the slutty assistant?”

  Fern rolled her eyes beneath enormous false lashes with glitter on the ends. I should photograph her, really, get some model shots. She’d do anything, boudoir, leather, nudes. If only I had some time before I dismantled the lights. I had no idea when I’d be set up again.

  “So why exactly are YOU the one packing?” she asked.

  “He wants the house for the baby.”

  “Oh, right. The love child. You aren’t going to take him to the cleaners?”

  I resumed shoving books into boxes. “He doesn’t have anything to clean out. We dumped everything into the house.” Bloody bad timing, actually, for this to happen. We could have at least had something to split, so I could get a fresh start.

  She kicked a wall with her shiny boot. “Fuckin’ a.”

  “Besides.” I scooted a box closer to her. “He’s obviously had her over here. I found these in the liquor cabinet.”

  Fern bent over the box. “What’s in it?”

  “Sex toys.”

  She pulled back a flap. “Really? He just left them with the liquor?”

  “Never wanted to do any of that stuff with me.”

  Fern sorted through the box, her honey-toned body not showing a bulge anywhere, totally the opposite of me, with my skinny arms and legs and a pooch belly, topped by a face only a bulldog could love. But Fern. That girl inspired stalking at epidemic levels. If she’d ever had a relationship last more than five minutes, I might have been jealous.

  “I guess they forgot to use these.” She held up a string of florescent orange condoms.

  Not funny. I turned away to sweep all the CDs off the bookshelves. Mine, his, and ours. He’d have to start his collection over. I could resell these if I got desperate.

  She dropped the condoms back into the box. “You going to be okay?”

  “No, actually, I’m pretty screwed. I don’t even have a studio.”

  “Well, I have good news for you. We’re going to get you that wedding gig back.”

  “The one with the lesbians?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “But they weren’t even sure they were going to go.”

  She dug through the toy box again. “Well, they are. And I want you to meet the rest of the girls. They’ll love you, you’ll be hired, and everything will be okay again.”

  I stared at a Blondie album cover, not sure why Fern was so bent on helping me. We were friends, of course, but mainly as Sisters in Whine, more likely to share a text message than a night out. She was a hottie trust-funded assistant in the movie industry, and I was, well, a wreck. “When are we going?”

  “Tonight. Meet me at my place at six.”

  “I’ll be there.” I swiped at the dust hidden behind the row of CDs. Housekeeping, not my strength.

  Fern scooted over closer to me. “Will you be okay for a while once they pay for the wedding? Enough to get a place?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be all right. As long as you’re okay with a houseguest for a few days until then. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  She sorted through the teensy purse attached to her belt and tugged out a spare key. “As long as you don’t scare the boys away.”

  I took the key and stuck it in my pocket. “Just warn me when they’re coming.”

  “That’s the problem, they’re always coming without warning.” She reached into the sex-toy box and retrieved a pink rabbit vibrator. “You’re better off with one of these.”

  Chapter 7: Get Your Game Face On

  I took the stairs two at a time up to Fern’s fourth-floor condo. Time to ditch the pot belly if I was going to date again. Blech.

  I paused, huffing, outside her door. A mirror in the hallway confirmed my hair had gone wild again. I smashed it down and rang her buzzer. I didn’t think I should use the key until I was officially moved in.

  Fern threw open the door, and I staggered back when I saw her outfit. “Are you really wearing that?”

  The getup was straight from A League of Their Own. Short pleated skirt, matching crew-neck top, ball cap, and even bobby socks. All the color of a petunia. “Did you forget your pink pom pons?”

  Fern arranged her face into a pout. God, that girl could put it on. “You never like my couture.” She headed to her bedroom.

  I followed her. “It’s just a little…unexpected. Where are we meeting them exactly?”

  Fern faced the mirrored wall behind her bed, adjusting her ponytails beneath the cap. “Their softball game.”

  “Oh. That’ll be interesting.” I twisted my own hair self-consciously as she perfected hers. “So what’s your connection with these women?”

  “I know a few of them.”

  “Which ones?”

  She turned around, hand on her hip. “Just Aud, really. The others I only met a time or two.”

  “How do you know her?”

  She sat on the bed in a huff. “What’s with the third degree? I know tons of people in this town.”

  “It’s just strange how you’re going so out of the way for me.”

  She pressed down on my hair, then giggled when it flew back up. “Stop worrying.”

  I stepped away. “Stop worrying! These women will eat me alive. I barely made it through the first meeting.”

  “They’re okay girls,” Fern insisted, coming back at me, this time with a comb.

  “I don’t know anything about gay rights. I got confused just trying to figure out who they were in the coffee shop.”

  She began combing through my frizz. “It’s not rocket science.” She stood back to assess her progress on my hair. “Just don’t be a homophobe.”

  “I’m not a homophobe. I just worry I might look like one.”

  “You’ll do fine. Stick close to me.” She turned to a rack of hats by her closet door. Every type of headwear imaginable covered the pegs, from sequined top hats to pink net pill boxes. She tugged down a red ball cap, standard issue.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “You’ll fit right in.” She set the cap on my head and pulled my hair through the hole in back. “This needs some conditioner.” She stepped into the bathroom and returned with a squeeze bottle. The room filled with the scent of gardenia as she smoothed the mass of frizz. “There. Much better.”

  She turned me to the mirrored wall. My hair was almost tame, the flyaway strands smoothed into a curly mop.

  She popped the cap shut. “Let’s go!”

  I trudged after her, quite sure I was headed toward certain doom.

  ***

  My Volvo bounced and bumped through potholes in the dirt as we approached the softball fields.

  Colored shirts dotted the fields in every direction, along with knee socks and shiny shorts. I had never been much of a sports player. The two times I’d ever been to bat in junior high, I’d closed my eyes and swung. Making any sort of connection between metal and leather was about as likely as bumping uglies with Brad Pitt.

  Fern peered out the window like a kid looking into FAO Schwartz.

  I gripped the steering wheel. Despite being worried about how she might act, I was glad she had asked me to come along. I vowed to let her do the talking to avoid embarrassing myself. “What are we looking for?” I asked.

  “Red uniforms that say ‘Satan’s Hoebags.’”

  “Oh, right. Their team.”

  She pointed at a mass of women in purple. “Oh, look at those. Palin’s Power Tools.”

  Their shirts had an image of Sarah Palin’s face on the front. The backs read, “A Team You Can Get Behind!”

  I pulled up next to the line of cars and parked. “S
arah Palin. Finally get a woman on the ballot and it has to be a conservative ex-beauty queen.”

  Fern opened her door. “Don’t worry. Caribou Barbie will have the shelf life of a day-old Twinkie once Obama gets elected.”

  I killed the engine. “He’s a sure thing?”

  Fern stepped out of the car, then popped her platinum head back inside. “As sure as Carrot Top being your soul mate.”

  I got of the car and nervously ran my hand along the conditioned ponytail. Strands were already starting to dry out and fly away.

  We headed toward the bleachers. “I am so going to blow this.”

  “Just be calm and confident.” She waved to a blue group. “These team names are so great—the Love Monkeys.”

  A beautiful girl in a Love Monkey uniform nodded as we passed. “What team are YOU on?” she asked.

  I shook my head at her. “We don’t play softball.”

  Fern gripped me tighter and steered me abruptly away. “Just a joke!” she called over her shoulder. “This one’s not mine!”

  After a few steps, she said, “Don’t talk!”

  “What? What did I say?”

  Fern leaned in so close her cheek brushed mine. “She wasn’t asking me if I was on a softball team. She wanted to know if I was gay or straight.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?”

  We passed another team called the “Big Rods.” I had to tread carefully over the broken ground, rutted with tire tracks and clumps of dried dirt. Fern hanging on me like a drunk chimpanzee didn’t help. “Is this a special league?”

  “With names like that? Obviously. It’s the Gay and Lesbian Athletic Alliance League. They have them in California too.”

  I forced us to slow down to avoid tripping. “Are only gays allowed?”

  “I don’t think so. THAT boy doesn’t look gay.” She pointed at a twenty-something with a mop of curly hair and biceps on his biceps.

  “How will I know what to say or do?” I asked. Paranoia began to mushroom. “What are you going to say to Mary and Jenna?”

  Suddenly it was too late. A cluster of red-uniformed women approached us from behind, catching up, one of them draping her arm around Fern. “It’s the hottie!” She tossed her dreadlocks as she whipped around to the team members behind us. “Blitz, get up here. You remember Fern, right?”