This story has a special meaning for me, and I hope you like it. I still cry at the end of it.
PART ONE
The Jaguar broke down half way between Albany and New York, a gray day, gray sky, smell of rain in the trees. And Beth thinking: Not here, not here in the middle of nowhere.
She sat behind the wheel in the parking lot of a windblown rest stop, people with tired faces wandering in and out of the squat restaurant like zombies. Were they alive? Oh damn, why here? Why here in the middle of nowhere? Where was it anyway? Served her right for not driving back on the Thruway. Was it some kind of trite retribution for the argument with Claire in Albany? Silly dyke spat, more looks than words. Traveling all the way to Albany to see Claire only to find Claire with someone else, Claire and another woman, Claire's bed occupied. Predictable, wasn't it? Claire in no time with another woman. All those hot fantasies during the long drive up to Albany and then finding Claire with another woman, Claire already with someone else, new secrets between them, the way they glanced at each other. Two days in Albany imagining Claire and the woman together, anger at Claire, anger at herself, anger at the world. The woman rolling her eyes as if to say, Listen, who invited you here, why don't you go home?
And now this.
It took an hour to get a tow-truck, but after that a mere ten minutes to have the Jaguar pulled into the nearest town. Milson Corners. What kind of name was that? Where were the corners? Definitely in the middle of nowhere; definitely not a place where a New York woman ought to be stranded on a Sunday afternoon. Make the best of it, she thought, remain calm, remain in control. She would call Rita and Rita would chuckle and say something nutty about how bad things always happen to people who leave New York, but don't worry, I can handle things alone until you get the car fixed.
The mechanic looked at Beth as the tow-truck winch eased the car down outside his tiny shop.
"What's the trouble, miss?"
A man about sixty with greasy clothes, like he'd been living in grease for sixty years, eating it, licking it off his fingers. Did he smoke Prince Albert in a corncob? Beth remembered an old uncle always in a cloud of tobacco.
"I don't know. It makes a horrible noise."
"Okay, we'll find out."
"How long will it take? I mean how long will it take to get it fixed and get me out of here?"
The old mechanic shrugged. Family in Hudson Valley since 1800. All those generations chewing on corncobs.
"Can't say yet. Depends on what's wrong. If it's a part that's hard to get, could be a day, two days."
Beth groaned. "Two days?"
"Could be. You got the keys?"
"They're in the car."
The mechanic walked over to the Jaguar, opened the door and climbed inside. In a moment Beth heard the horrible noise again, metal grinding against metal, the Jaguar croaking.
The mechanic called out: "Sounds like the starter motor is gone."
Beth called back: "How long will it take?"
"Could be more than two days."
Oh damn, Beth thought.
Suddenly, she noticed the painting, a glimpse of it through the grimy office window, reds, blues, burnt sienna. She stepped closer, peering inside. On the wall behind a counter cluttered with auto parts--a large square painting looking like a Braque.
Braque in Milson Corners? But it was not a Braque, it was something else, not Cubist, better than Cubist. Jumping. Startling.
The mechanic left the Jaguar and walked over to Beth and Beth said:
"Where did you get that?"
"Get what, miss?"
"That painting, the painting hanging in the office."
The old man chuckled. "Someone I know did that. Can't make it out myself. You got any idea what it is? What about the car now? What would you like to do with it? Could be we can't find a Jag starter motor except in Poughkeepsie. Pretty little car, but it ain't worth a damn when it falls apart."
"Can I go inside and look at the painting?"
The old man glanced down at her high-heeled sandals.
"Sure, do what you like. Look at all the pictures you want. But don't trip in there. I ain't had a chance to clean it out in some time."
He muttered to himself as he walked back to the Jaguar and raised the hood.
Beth opened the office door and stepped inside. Clean it out indeed. It would take a month to clean this pig-pen. The air smelling of stale beer and unwashed clothes. Piles of cartons, old newspapers, greasy rags. She walked over to the counter directly opposite the painting. Looking at it. Definitely something. Sharp figures of nude women painted over a Cubist-like background. An extremely competent painter; no, it was more than that: someone quite brilliant. A definite talent. The technique superb.
The office door opened and the old man came in.
"It's the starter motor, all right. Don't expect I'll find one anywhere near here, so I'll have to call Poughkeepsie. By the way, my name's Earl."
At that moment a shadow crossed the door, and the door opened again, and a woman entered. A tall lean woman, a strong appearance, with short dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to burn out of a sun-brown fine chiseled face.
The old man turned.
"Morning, Marlo. This young lady's been looking at your picture."
* * *
Later Beth would tell herself it was destiny, fate making her travel to Albany, fate making her drive the Taconic back instead of the Thruway, fate making the car break down, fate bringing her to this old mechanic to be here at the moment Marlo walked in. A woman called Marlo. What a name. What a woman. Beth was deeply aware of her own confusion. Totally swept away, her knees trembling as those burning dark eyes gazed at her. Like a stupid soap opera. Who the hell was she? That marvelous chiseled face.
Marlo looked away and said:
"Is that so?
Beth fumbled.
"Yes, I like it. I'm part manager of a gallery in New York and I'd like to see more of your work. I think--"
"I'm really not interested."
And, incredibly, Marlo turned and walked out, the door vibrating after she slammed it.
Beth stared at the door, then looked at the old mechanic. "Now what was that all about?"
Earl shrugged. "That's Marlo, all right. Ornery like her dead mother. Marlo's my niece, but I ain't so ornery, am I?" Then he snickered: "No one ever knows a damn about Marlo."
"I'd like to see her paintings."
"You can't see nothing if she don't show it to you, and it looks like today she ain't in a mood to show nothing to nobody."
"Maybe tomorrow."
Earl peered at her. "You figuring on staying awhile?"
"You said it would take a few days to fix the car."
"Yep, I did at that. I got to call Poughkeepsie."
"Is there a hotel in town?"
Earl snorted. "Hotel, hell. There ain't no hotel within thirty miles of here. But I could get you a room down the road at Ma Willow's, if you don't mind her neighbor."
"Her neighbor?"
"Ma's got one neighbor behind her near the creek. And that's Marlo, my niece."
Definitely Prince Albert.
* * *
Marlo sat in an old stuffed chair with her eyes on a girl named Lucy. The girl was blonde, not yet twenty, crazy in love with Marlo, wearing a navy skirt and a pale blue sweater tight enough to show her pointed little breasts.
Now Lucy tossed her long blonde hair and looked at Marlo.
"How should I pose today?"
And Marlo said: "I don't know yet. Just get your clothes off."
Lucy gave her a coy look. Striptease. Marlo was fond of the girl but it would not go anywhere. She would not let Lucy live with her no matter how much Lucy wanted it. Lucy would beg and Marlo would always resist. She would not let anyone live with her, had not let it happen in years and years. Not if living meant sleeping in the same bed every night, looking at and talking to the same woman day and night, day and night. Not Marlo. She knew the hells of monogamy. They wanted her; the women all wanted her; driven to her by the special charisma she had; but she would not take any of them permanently. And besides, Lucy was too young. The girl's parents were dead, but she lived with an aunt and uncle and Marlo wanted no more gossip in the valley, no whispering about how Lucy the drugstore cashier was living with that crazy painter woman near the creek. It was bad enough when people talked whenever Marlo drove Lucy around on her motorcycle.
Lucy said: "Something is wrong."
She was no fool; she knew Marlo's moods.
"Nothing is wrong."
Nothing wrong, nothing said. Marlo thought of the New York woman at Earl's, the woman with the expensive clothes and the sweet little body and high heels. Definitely hot for it. The way she had looked at Marlo had made it so obvious. An instant connection with their eyes. Marlo knowing them when they looked at her like that. Reading them. Thinking about working them.
Lucy pouted, continuing the slow removal of her clothes, gliding with extreme grace. Marlo appreciated the gracefulness of the girl and she watched her carefully. Lucy moved slowly, aware every moment that Marlo was watching her. She slipped the black flats off her feet. She peeled away the pale blue sweater and white bra to show her jiggling small breasts with pink nipples like gumdrops, each nipple pierced by a tiny gold ring. Marlo's rings. Marlo had wanted the girl's nipples pierced and Lucy had been happy to do whatever Marlo wanted. They'd gone to Albany for it; a date with a burned-out witch to get the rings in Lucy's tits. Now Lucy stalled, slowly folding the sweater and draping it over the back of a chair, standing in profile as she bent forward to show Marlo her dangling little ringed breasts that made Marlo's mouth water. Marlo wanted one in her mouth, her tongue flipping the ring. The girl gave a coy look to see if Marlo was still watching. Then Lucy's hands were at the skirt zipper, pulling it down, her breasts shaking as she dropped the skirt and stepped out of it.
Surprise. No tights today. Lucy had chosen her underthings to entice Marlo. Stockings with lace tops and a white garter belt, no panties to cover the blonde fluff at her crotch. The stockings were new and Marlo had never seen them before. She'd given Lucy the garter belt some time ago, but the girl had always worn it with the stockings bought for her by Marlo, and then only when Marlo told her to dress that way.
