Lydia Netzer - How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky

“It’s only for a little while,” said Sally.

“Twenty years,” said Bernice.

“We can visit each other in our dreams.”

“That’s not enough. I’ll miss you. This is a terrible idea.”

“Well, terrible or not, it’s not a new one. And you agreed to it.”

Sally began to straighten up the entryway, folding a scarf and smoothing the sleeves of a jacket, putting shoes in a line: George’s shoes, Sally’s shoes, Dean’s shoes, even some flip-flops that belonged to Ray, left the last time he’d popped in.

“This isn’t going to work unless we separate them, Bern,” she said as she cleaned. “And really separate—no playdates, no field trips. If we’re still hanging out together all the time, they’re not separate. This has got to be a cold cut.”

Sally stopped fidgeting and put her hand on Bernice’s shoulder. “And after they get married, why think of how much life we’ll have to live together? We won’t even be fifty! We can still get adjacent suites at the old folks’ home, BERN-iss! It’ll be just like we always planned. But our kids will be happy. And that’ll mean we can be happy. Right? Come on. The grandchildren will be here in like five minutes. And then we can tell them everything. As soon as they’re safely in love.”

For three years they maintained the separation. For three years, Bernice was able to maintain the sobriety she had kept for the three years she’d lived with Sally and Dean. Sally would send her letters, sometimes, detailing the ways they’d put the children’s lives together: what music they’d love, what countries they would visit, what poems they’d learn. She made a map for them to find each other, through the study of the stars. Every letter was signed, “I love you! Don’t forget that!” Bernice kept these letters in a locked box, and read them over and over.

And then one night, alone, afraid, tired, and restless, Bernice broke. There was no special reason for it: just a dissolution of will. Breaking meant drinking. Drinking felt terrible and wonderful and like going home again and like being cast out of home into the fire, and when she was good and drunk she called Sally, on the telephone, something that Sally had specifically forbidden.

“Hello?” said a voice. The voice of a child.

“Is your mother at home?” Bernice said, as best she could.

“What?” the child said. “What did you say?”

Bernice was mustering the courage to try again, do better, when Sally spoke, “Give me the phone, George. Who is this? What do you want?”

“Sally, it’s me.”

Sally arrived at the front door thirty minutes later, and the first thing she did was to grab Bernice by the wrist and pull her out onto the porch. She shut the door and the screen door and peeked into the window, where Irene was watching television.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sally asked through clenched teeth.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bernice responded.

“Are you drunk?” Sally was aghast.

“No. I’m not drunk. But I’m going to be a drunk if you don’t call off this deal. I’m done. I’m done with the thing. It’s stupid anyway, and who cares, and this is not right. I think what we are really doing is ruining my life.” Bernice let herself drop into the porch swing.

Sally clutched her face with both hands and sat down next to her. “You’re drunk! I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I’m. Like. This.” Bernice said it very slowly. “I. Always. Am.”

Sally took Bernice by the hand. “We’ve got to get you some coffee,” she said. “It’ll be OK. We’ll get you coffee and aspirin. It’ll be fine. You just went a little crazy.”

The touch of Sally’s hand on hers made her begin to cry. “I’m so lonely,” she said. “I’m lonely and I don’t know what to do.”

Sally smiled her big wonky smile. “Maybe you just need a boyfriend!” she said. “You could find someone. Someone like Dean. He may be gone a lot, but he’s so—”

“He dazzles you,” Bernice cried even harder. “I know.”

“Is that it? Do you need to, like, date?” Sally frowned. “It almost seems like the last guy you had a date with is Ray.”

“Irene’s father.”

“Don’t call him that. He’s George’s uncle.”

“That’s what he is.”

“What’s going on with you? I mean, I get that you weren’t dating when the kids were little, but why now? Are you, like, some kind of nun? Are you pouting?”

Bernice knew that what was going to happen next would be something she remembered forever, good or bad. In her mind, she would reach out and brush Sally’s hair away from her face, place her palm alongside her friend’s cheek, and say, “It’s you, Sally. It’s you, and it’s always been you. That’s why I can’t bear this separation for the children. It’s separation from the only one I’ve ever loved.” She would see a light of understanding in Sally’s eyes, and she would lean in and kiss her, first on one cheek, and then on the other, and then Sally herself would turn her lips to meet Bernice’s. It would be something she would remember forever.

But what happened was different. Bernice said something Sally didn’t understand, and then she reached for her friend and hooked her around the ear. She came in for a kiss, and Sally stopped her by pushing back on her shoulder and standing up.

“What are you doing?” Sally asked.

“I love you,” said Bernice.

“You really are drunk,” Sally laughed nervously.

“I like girls,” said Bernice. “Girls, not boys. I like girls not boys. NOT BOYS.”

Then Sally whispered, “What? You’re GAY?” Her whisper was loud enough to wake the neighbors, loud enough to overcome the television, loud enough to rock the foundation of the house, loud enough to echo down the years of Bernice’s life, and all the casual touching, and all the friendly hugs, booming with the secret. Bernice could see a light dawning in Sally’s eyes, but it wasn’t love. Sally understood very well what was happening. It was aggravation, and anger, maybe betrayal, and she felt as if Sally was seeing her for the first time, and she was seeing a monster.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sally snapped. “I’m not an asshole. I would have been cool with it.”

“Because you’re not!” Bernice yelled back. “You’re not gay and I am. That’s it. That’s what happened. Nobody twinned us, nobody set us up for a lifetime of happiness, we just happened to be two girls, one gay, one not, and what am I supposed to do, loving you? What am I supposed to do about it? You won’t even let me see you anymore.”

“You love me?”

“I’m really in love with you,” said Bernice. “Really. I am. Since high school.”

“No, you’re not,” said Sally. “You’re not. You’re over it. You got over it.”

“I AM.”

Sally came very close to her. Bernice could feel her breath coming in and out, landing on her face. Her face was numb. She could feel the heat from Sally’s breath. That was it. Sally took a sharp breath in, and she glared at Bernice. When the words came out, they came hard and low. “Are you telling me that this whole thing has been you trying to get in my pants? Is that what you expect me to believe?”

“No,” said Bernice. “Not the whole thing.”

“When I think”—Sally put her face inches from Bernice, and it was terrible to see the rage in her friend’s face—“about the ways I have let you touch me. You are disgusting.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Bernice. “You’re just mad. You’re just surprised.”

“Surprised is not what I am,” said Sally. “I am not surprised you are gay. I’m unsurprised and unimpressed. Lots of people are gay. Lots of people I know, people you know, so it’s not even news. It’s not even interesting.”