If you've just opened book six…
Firstly, thank you!
Secondly, you are probably expecting certain things—from the Dykes Who Dare and from me. In the pages that follow, the characters are true to the women you have come to know. Even the story line, while new, rings true to the heart of the Lesbian Adventure Club. It's this author who is about to throw your expectations out the window.
Why mess with a good thing? Excellent question!
The books contain strange adventures. You have tagged along with the characters, but thus far, you have merely watched. So, why shouldn't I create a book that's an adventure for you? You've listened to Kate so often curse, "What the hell?" as she tries to make sense of what is going on around her. Why shouldn't I make you ask, "What the hell?" so you can experience it as they do? Are you game? If I D Double D dare you, would you make a beeline down the pier and plunge into something shockingly different?
What exactly have you done, Roz? Another excellent question. You are full of them.
It's fairly simple: This book is written backwards. Instead of them arriving at the beginning, they are leaving. When you get to the end, they'll be bailing out of cars wanting to know what the adventure is. It will all make sense to you by the time they step foot on Ginny and Kris' lawn.
So again, why mess with a good thing? Because it's the nature of the Lesbian Adventure Club: to mess with and to be messed with. It's merely your turn; it's paying your dues.
If you're not up for my dare—if you're a leaker—that's okay. I've got you covered. Simply read the Forward Version included in this ebook. The chapters in numerical order will give you what you came here expecting.
If you are up to the dare, grab my hand, and let's zoom down the pier. Heads up!
I stirred from sleep to spy Kris tossing another log on the fire. Instead of acknowledging her, I snapped my eyelids shut and nestled closer to Claudia. The night's passage had not lessened my need for her, but regardless, she remained dead to the world. The smell of coffee dripping in the kitchen at least gave me something realistic for which to hope. I held her for a few moments, kissed her softly, and then did my best to sneak out of the sleeping bag without rousing her.
I padded down the hall and shoved my head out the front door, fully expecting the Sunday Granton Journal to be waiting like a faithful friend for me on the step. It wasn't. I turned and found Kris approaching with an offering of coffee. Instantly, I grabbed the cup and took a desperate slurp.
"We don't get the Sunday paper delivered until the snow flies," she explained. "Until then, it's an excuse to walk two blocks to the bakery for donuts."
"I'll make a run for donuts and a paper. Do you want to go?"
She laughed. "I'm lucky I can stand after Ginny and I slept on that couch. See whether Alison or Janice want to go. They're in the study doing yoga."
I headed that way and found Janice eager to make the trek with me. We grabbed jackets and shoes, and I ran comb-fingers through my plastered down hair. Then, I peeked into the living room once more. Claudia still slept soundly, and I hoped she stayed that way until we returned. The others were comatose, too, and little Muse kept vigil atop the Holly-Laura stack.
Janice and I headed out into the frigid morning. The cold was sobering in a good way, as was the city's stillness. I lit a cigarette and sipped the coffee I had brought along. We walked in silence for nearly a block before the busybody within me became fully caffeinated and finally awakened. I asked, "If you and Alison are trying to go back to how it was before the Lisa thing, does that mean something's wrong?"
"I wouldn't call it wrong," she said and then paused to think. "Something is different though. We latched onto each other really tight, and then when Lisa was out of the picture, I think Alison was afraid it was only fear that made us latch."
"Was it?"
"Not for me," she readily admitted. "I loved her before that. But, I do admit that while I hated what happened, what it did to her, I really liked her needing me so much. I liked her depending on me. And she doesn't as much now. She's quite a force when she's not afraid."
"Maybe she just needs you and depends on you in different ways," I reasoned.
"She probably does; I hope she does. I think I was just stating to learn that when Lisa came along and screwed things up. We got horribly sidetracked. So I think maybe Alison was right to slow us down a bit, even though I hate it." She laughed. "We make big deals about dates and flowers and letters and stolen lunches at the park. How can that be wrong? … We'll be okay. We're working on the little things, because the big things were kind of forced on us too soon. It's actually very sweet—frustrating sometimes, but very, very sweet."
That made sense to me, and I told her so. When I looked back at nearly ten years with Claudia, it was a conglomeration of little things that made us what we were. The day I didn't appreciate her laughter or receive a swat on the arm was the day the abyss came far too close again. Maybe that was what brought it so close to begin with and put us on separate sides of it. If it had been a big thing—or had stayed the huge thing it was when her grandmother died—I would have seen it. Maybe we could have run to safety sooner. Maybe it never would have happened at all. It proved easier to stay present and connected when there was a threat. It was much harder in a get-up go-to-work come-home routine. But, I relished waking to the feel of her beside me. We made a point of sending each other off to work every day with a shot of love in the arm. And I absolutely craved coming home to her. Humungous little things, jumbo shrimp.
Janice and I completed our sojourn to the bakery and headed back to the awakening house.
I zipped to the living room. Claudia barely stirred, and I greedily jumped back in the sleeping bag to be with her and to regain the warmth the autumn morning had looted. I glommed on and recognized in an instant how lucky I was to have a plethora of little things. I kissed the soft spot on her neck, her shoulder, her side. Field studies were indeed incidental to this.
"You got front page, dilly!" Maggie suddenly exclaimed, holding the newspaper up for all to see. "Way to go!"
I quickly qualified, "It only got front page because the world cooperated for once. No scandals or disasters out-shouted me. October is Domestic Abuse Awareness Month; that sure didn't hurt either."
"Still! That is so cool!"
Susan snatched the newspaper from her. "You kept your Crappie Cabin promise, Kate!"
"So did your cape-less crusader. So did everybody else. Read the names in the story."
She started poring over "One in Four Women," eventually yelling, "Dr. Kris Maltry! … Detective Laura McCallister! … Oo oo, GLBT Center volunteer Maggie Novak! That's you, honey! … AT? Who's AT? Alison! Alison Tenner!"
"None other than the one who said she'd work to get her shit together."
Claudia gave me a sleepy kiss and an even sleepier "good job" just as a groggy Holly managed to ask, "Did you get anyone for a support group, Maggie?"
"I got a therapist to volunteer to lead it, but no women yet," she answered. "But on Friday, the Rainbow Room let me wallpaper the women's bathroom with flyers."
A groggier Laura laughed. "Good work, Novak! That's where I'd start looking for them … while their partners are on the other side of the door, out at the bar slugging them down before they slug them up. Find them all, Novak! Find every one of them."
"I'm sure going to try. Then maybe we'll see what we can do for the guys."
Ginny and Kris came into the living room with trays of food, coffee, and Mr. Earl Grey, who would see to it that I got all of Ms. Ballsy back from the sandwoman. Then, Alison and Janice reentered, plopping themselves on the couch. They held hands, they smiled at each other, and I had no choice but to trust that the little things they focused on were as pushpins keeping them fastened together. I looked to Maggie and Susan, realizing they were about to land feet first in a big thing, but a big thing that would only thrive if filled with little things. We were all stronger since last we had been here, and yet, we were still scavenging. We would always be scavenging for little things to pick up along the way. Yep, the old Victorian had to be smiling all the way up to her antique lightning rod.
We ate, drank, and enjoyed laid-back chatter: the reliable morning-after things that were just as prized as any other part of our meetings. Then, we solidified our plan to meet at Maggie and Susan's new place at two o'clock to clean. We reiterated our agreement to help them move their stuff next Saturday. Maggie agreed to enlist Denny and his pickup, and Holly swore Noelle would be there with her minivan even if she had to tie her to its front grill. Claudia informed them of our intent to besiege Crappie Cabin on our anniversary weekend. Again, we concluded our meeting with beginnings. Something ended, but hope remained ignited nonetheless.
Ginny and Kris easily talked us into leaving our pumpkins with them for Halloween decorations. It seemed fitting since we merely gave our partners triangle eyes and noses and jagged teeth. Holly, however, was insistent that theirs make the trek home with them, a wish Ginny and Kris expeditiously granted. Apparently, the little red car that could not haul body parts could manage Smut Pumpkin just fine. A red-faced Laura was charged with holding it the entire distance.
The rest of us collected our stuff, and Ginny and Kris walked us out.
"Hey, crybabies!" Laura suddenly shouted. "Butt war! We can't have a weekend without a butt war!" She stuck her behind halfway across the driveway. When we crybabies took our offensively defensive positions, she craned her neck and whispered, "I'll give fifty bucks to anyone who makes me accidentally drop this pumpkin without my getting into trouble with that gorgeous, jiggly one over there. I D Double D dare ya!"
Dare? Did someone say 'dare'?
We started laughing, and rip-roaring butt-warring ensued, obnoxiously enough to drown out the bellowed warnings and threats from littermates and hostesses. And then, it happened. It was not at all pretty sight. It did not make a pretty sound. And the gasp from Holly was so far from pretty that it made damn ugly look damn good.
"Sutter, you f-er!" Laura shouted. "You made me drop the pumpkin! Aw, it's ruined! For shit's sake, Sutter! Hol, she busted it!"
Fifty bucks for this? A public flogging? What the hell was I thinking?
"I'm sorry, Holly," I declared while trying to squelch laughter and the urge to save face by ratting out the catty one. "I'm really sorry, Holly. It was such a beautiful pumpkin."
Holly came over and wordlessly stared down at Smut Pumpkin's chunked corpse. Neither carved side survived the fall. While it was far, far too late for forethought, I suddenly feared her reaction. I admit that I had not even considered it. Shit!
After the passage of a gay netherworld eternity, Holly very coolly said, "You're right, babe. It's busted. … And so are you. Throw the poor pumpkin in the trashcan, and get in the car, you big shit! We'll have to go buy another one." Oh, she swatted her a good one, but she winked at me in passing.
Now that was worth fifty bucks! The next fifteen seconds of the story, however, was not.
"Maggie, get in the car!"
"Janice, get in the car!"
All aboard! Snake! Order #52! Kate!
"Get in the car, Kate! Get in the car!"
Claudia tossed the keys and a dirty look at me. I did what she asked but managed to stall long enough to watch a laughing Laura being dragged to the car by her jacket sleeve. The scene ranked right up there with Professor Soup Fountain at the dinner table. Then, in a shocking turn of events, it ranked even higher as I realized that Claudia heartily laughed.
We composed ourselves as the little red car sped down the street, followed by redhead, blackhead, and the new housemates.
"Balloons?" I asked as I shoved the car into drive. "I seem to owe you balloons. Should I stop somewhere?"
"Nah. That's seems rather juvenile this morning, doesn't it?"
It did seem juvenile—funny but juvenile. I decided in that moment, however, to take a billboard hint from Alison and Janice. I'd send a bouquet of balloons to her at work tomorrow, for no other reason than to make her laugh and swat me a good one. I wondered if they made balloons that read: Happy Pop Splooosh Aaa Ahhhhhh!
"Pantyhose?" I asked as I prepared to pull away from the dear old Victorian. "I seem to owe you those, too. Should I stop somewhere?"
"Nah. Slacks and knee-high variety will do, especially on a Monday and especially after a weekend like this."
"Home?" I dared once more. "Or are you going to give me a 'nah' for that, too?"
"Never!"
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Home then," I acknowledged and stepped on the gas. "Home is where the squishy heart is … and the Lover Doll, who will need some pumping up now that bimbo babe is gone. Home is where the demolished porch is … and the bodies of fired contractors, and—"
"Us! Don't forget us," she interrupted. "The rest really doesn't matter, does it?"
"Nah."
Laugh.
Swat.
Jumbo shrimp.