Рон Рэш - The Best American Short Stories 2018

Lucy nods and says both matter-of-factly and shakily, “I did, in my late teens and early twenties. I consider myself bisexual.”

“Oh yeah, you do, bitch,” Frank says. “Booyah!”

“Can you not talk over her?” Kirsten says.

Mariana, who Kirsten hopes is feigning naïveté for her viewers, says, “But if you’re married to a man you’re not still bisexual, are you?”

“Well, my husband and I are monogamous, but I think even if your circumstances change your core identity remains. Like, heaven forbid, if my husband passed away I’d still be madly in love with him.”

Really? Kirsten thinks. Madly?

Mariana asks, “Do you worry about how your fans will react to this news?”

“I love my fans,” Lucy says, and turns and waves at the studio audience, who explode in applause. Though, surely, an audience in Southern California is not representative of Lucy’s base.

Over the cheering, Mariana says, “This is just a hunch, but it seems like they love you, too.” More thunderous cheering ensues.

“Really,” Lucy says. “I gave this serious thought. I prayed on it, I talked to my preacher, I talked to my family. And obviously things are a lot better now for the LGBT community than they once were, but you still hear about teenagers taking their lives, or being made to feel like they’re less than. So I decided to let them know, Hey, you’re not alone.”

Kirsten thinks of Lucy at the camp-counselor orientation in 1994, and then she thinks, What if Lucy isn’t a greedy, phony hypocrite? What if she’s still herself, as surprised by the turns her life has taken as Kirsten sometimes is by hers? In Flanagan’s, it occurs to Kirsten that she might be witnessing a genuinely important cultural moment, which makes her wish that she were with someone other than Frank.

“I’m so verklempt,” he says. “I need a hug.” She assumes he’s being sarcastic, but when she glances at him he’s teared up for real. He makes a sheepish expression and says in a thick, wet voice, “I can’t believe your girlfriend is ruining my mascara.”

What choice does she have? In her arms, he smells like gin and some leathery cologne, and she’s still holding him when he lets loose with a huge, guttural sob.

“Oh, Frank,” Kirsten says.

After she leaves work, Kirsten doesn’t stop to buy Lucy’s book. When she arrives home, the boys greet her at the front door.

“Mama, how many tickles do you need to make an octopus laugh?” Jack says.

“I don’t know, how many?”

“I forgot my violin, but Mom brought it to me,” Ian says.

“I hope you thanked her,” Kirsten says.

“You need ten tickles,” Jack says.

In the kitchen, Casey is dumping mayonnaise into a large clear bowl, onto chunks of canned tuna.

“Melts?” Kirsten says by way of greeting, and Casey nods. As Kirsten washes her hands, Casey says, “Will you pull out the salad ingredients? There’s a yellow pepper.”

“I appreciate your getting Ian’s violin.”

“We need to be better organized in the morning,” Casey says. “I’m setting my alarm for fifteen minutes earlier tomorrow.”

“O.K.” After a pause, Kirsten says, “Did you hear that Lucy Headrick came out on The Mariana Show ? Or whatever coming out is called if it’s retroactive.”

“Who’s Lucy Headrick again?”

Oh, to be Casey! Calm and methodical, with a do-gooder job. To be a person who isn’t frittering away her life having vengeful thoughts about people from her past! It happens that Casey is both a former farm girl, of the authentic kind—she grew up in Flandreau, South Dakota—and a gold-star lesbian. She and Kirsten met thirteen years ago, at the Christmas-caroling party of a mutual friend. Kirsten got very drunk and climbed onto Casey’s lap during “Good King Wenceslas,” and that night she stayed over at Casey’s apartment.

“Lucy Headrick is the Prairie Wife,” Kirsten says. “She just wrote a book.”

“Got it,” Casey says.

“She was actually very eloquent. And her fans are definitely the kind of people who are still bigots.”

“Good for her.”

“Are you pissed at me?”

“No,” Casey says. “But I’m trying to get dinner on the table.”

Kirsten puts the boys to bed, then lies down in the master bedroom and looks at her phone. It’s difficult to estimate what portion of the tweets Lucy has received this afternoon are ugly—they’re mixed in with “Yay for standing your truth Lucy!” and “I love you no matter what!!!” Maybe a third?

“why u like to eat pussy did u ever try a hard cock”

“You are A LESBIAN ADULTERER. You are DISGUSTING + BAD for AMERICA!!!!!”

“Romans 1:26 two women is ‘against nature.’”

Quickly, before she can talk herself out of it, Kirsten types, “I thought you were very brave today.” After hitting Tweet, she feels a surge of adrenaline and considers deleting the message, but for whose benefit? Her three bots’? In any case, Lucy hasn’t tweeted since before noon, and Kirsten wonders if she’s gone on a Twitter hiatus.

In the summer, Kirsten and Casey usually watch TV together after the boys are asleep, but during the school year Casey works in the den—responding to parents’ emails, reading books about how educators can recognize multiple kinds of intelligence. Sometimes she keeps a baseball or a football game on mute, and the sports further deter Kirsten from joining her. Thus, almost every night, Kirsten stays upstairs, intending to fold laundry or call her mother while actually fucking around on her phone. At 9:45, she texts Casey “Going to bed,” and Casey texts back “Gnight hon,” followed by a sleeping-face emoji with “zzz” above the closed eyes. This is their nightly exchange, and, every night, for about four seconds, Kirsten ponders Casey’s choice of the sleeping-face emoji versus something more affectionate, like the face blowing a kiss, or just a heart.

While brushing her teeth, Kirsten receives a text from Frank: “Bitch did u see this?” There’s a link to what she’s pretty sure is a Prairie Wife article, and she neither clicks on it nor replies.

She is still awake, in the dark, when Casey comes upstairs almost an hour later, uses the bathroom, and climbs into bed without turning on the light; Kirsten rarely speaks to Casey at this juncture and always assumes that Casey thinks she’s asleep. But tonight, while curled on her side with her back to Casey, Kirsten says, “Did you sign Ian’s permission slip for the field trip to the science museum?”

“Yeah, it was due last Friday.”

“Oh,” Kirsten says. “Imagine that.”

They’re both quiet as Casey settles under the blankets, then she says, “Did the prairie lady mention you on TV?”

“I probably would have told you if she had.”

“Good point.” Unexpectedly, Casey leans over and kisses Kirsten’s cheek. She says, “Well, no matter what, I owe her a debt of gratitude for initiating you.”

For some reason, Kirsten tears up. She swallows, so that she won’t sound as if she’s crying, and says, “Do you really feel that way, or are you joking?”

“Do you think you’d have dated women if she hadn’t hit on you behind the arts-and-crafts shed?”

“And your life is better because you ended up with me?”

Casey laughs. “Who else would I have ended up with?”

“Lots of people. Someone less flaky and petty.”

“I like your flakiness and pettiness.”

Kirsten starts crying harder, though still not as hard as Frank was crying at the bar. But enough that Casey becomes aware of it and scoots toward Kirsten, spooning her from behind.

“Baby,” Casey says. “Why are you sad?”