“Yeah. And no, they weren’t old pills, she got rid of those back in February. Plus, they were right on top of everything. Even the floss. Last thing she’d put back in the drawer that morning.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
They both took another drink, only glancing at the game.
“So what do you think?” Garth asked. “I mean, that’s basically why I asked you down here, Bo. To ask you about this.”
“To ask me? Why?”
Garth stared. “Well, because none of my straight friends know shit about women.”
*
Up until two years ago, Leslie had never met anybody named “Hortense,” and she’d always figured that moniker had gone the way of Sylvester, Talullah, and other names people just weren’t named anymore. She had never really thought about that sort of thing until she started going through lists of baby names online.
She and Hortense had lunch at the same time most days, so they wound up eating together several times a week. As an investment director and the head teller, that meant they didn’t just brownbag it in the break room, but usually hit one of the posh little spots on Michigan Ave. They alternated who picked where to eat, and who treated. Wednesday, Hortense chose the French place and Leslie sighed wearily at the thought of a $14 goat cheese salad.
They talked about a book they’d both happened to read, then gossiped, just a little, about the fact that the branch manager was totally trying to lose weight to impress the most recent perky, blonde teller he had hired.
“Maybe a hundred pounds would do it,” Leslie said, and Hortense chuckled.
“He would have to lose a lot more than just weight. Pretty Suzie plays for my team.”
Leslie blinked. “No. Really?”
Hortense looked at her over horned-rimmed glasses, the rims a golden amber color that complemented her light brown eyes. She had a truly outstanding “Wise Old Black Lady” gaze she could bring to bear, though Leslie had Hortense Ginton pegged at somewhere around the mid 40’s.
“Leslie, honey. Seriously. You have no gaydar at all.”
“God, I don’t, do I? Did I tell you I tried to set up Garth’s IT buddy from the firm with my college roommate the same day I met him? I thought they’d be perfect for each other .”
“Bogart, from the concert?”
“Yeah.”
Hortense just laughed and shook her head.
“And you had to introduce me to Eden like three times before it sunk in. I kept thinking, ‘How nice. Hortense is really good friends with some white girl rocker chick from Boystown.’ From Boystown. It still didn’t really take until Garth was helping her out with that gallery deal.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah. I’m sharp as a bowling ball.” Leslie sighed, slumping back in a delicate chair and toying with her water glass on the spotless, white tablecloth. Hortense only stopped chuckling long enough for a forkful of leek and gruyère quiche, with the crust cut off. Leslie looked somewhat despondently at her own picked-over salad, and gave a sigh much louder than she had meant to.
“Uh-oh. That was more than a ‘why do I keep ordering goat cheese?’ sigh.”
Leslie met Hortense’s warm eyes.
“Hortense, can I ask you a…”
“Don’t,” Hortense put up a hand, clacking together a pair of beaded bracelets on her wrist. “Sorry, hon, but that ‘can I ask you a question?’ question always sets me off. Because it is a question. If you want to know something, just ask. I’m an open book.”
“You have two kids, right?” Leslie asked, though she knew full well that Hortense did, as the photos were all over her desk. Black-and-white pictures from infancy, all the way up through graduation photos, and now to the beaming girl, all grown up, holding an adorable baby of her own.
Hortense smiled the way only a proud mother could. “Theresa and Walter. My babies. Well, not anymore. But, still. Always.”
“Yeah, so, I mean. Um. You’ve never said anything…about a father or…um. A husband…”
Hortense tilted her head to one side, thankfully not forward to look over her glasses, so Leslie thought she was still on safe ground.
“Haven’t I ever?”
“Nope. And look, if I’m out of line…”
“Not at all, it’s fine, dear. Yes, I was married for seventeen years. To a wonderful man named Gus. Mr. and Mrs. August Garvan.”
“Did he…I’m sorry, did he pass away?”
“No, worse. Moved to Cleveland.”
Leslie raised an eyebrow and Hortense gave her earthy chuckle again.
“Sorry, I know that’s mean, but it’s his joke. He’s a Chicago boy. Hates the sports teams over there.”
“You two still, I mean, you talk and all?”
“Oh, all the time. We’re great friends. Always were. And he’s such a great Dad, with his new kids, too. That man is the love of my life, still.”
“But you’re…gay, now. Am I allowed to say gay?”
“Please do, it’s less rude in a restaurant than pantomime. And I was always gay, Leslie. Gus even knew it before I did, really.”
The waiter came by to refill the water, and neither Leslie nor Hortense said anything else but quiet thanks until he walked on to the next table. Leslie took a long drink, almost a gulp, before getting to the question she had wanted to ask before asking the last six questions.
“Before you had kids, was it something you wanted? I mean, did you know for sure that you wanted to have children, and to be a mother?”
Hortense looked Leslie levelly in the eyes.
“Yes. Not that I didn’t have my moments when I was scared, or not so sure. But they were just that. Moments. And they passed. I knew I wanted to have children.”
“You knew you wanted to have his, your husband’s children?” Leslie asked very quietly, barely audible.
The dip of the horn rimmed glasses.
“Leslie…” Hortense said slowly. “Can I ask you a question?”
*
The boys lived in an old brownstone on the way to Lake Forest. The whole neighborhood looked very spic-and-span in Eden’s eyes, as the city kept all the strips of median grass mowed, trimmed the old trees lining the shady street, and made sure all the faux-olde-timey-gas street lamps were working. Funny how nice a city always kept up the neighborhoods where the rich people lived — the people who could have afforded to pay for stuff themselves.
Eden had been listening to Ani DiFranco on the drive over, so she was feeling politically conscious.
After finding nobody home she had tried Bogart’s cell, and got Carmelo. It took him ten minutes to drive home, and instead of pulling around the back to the car port, he just parked his dusky Beemer on the street behind Eden’s ten-year-old Camry, with the funky daisy decal on the hood and the “Envision World Peas” bumper sticker, the words written around a pea-green Earth. Señor Carmelo bustled out of the car, all blinding smile, coifed black hair, and fitted shirt with maroon slacks. Eden was waiting on the porch steps in the sun, tan legs in cutoffs and a midriff-baring halter top that displayed a silver-and-sapphire belly ring. The sapphire matched the rings in her ears, the silver matched the one in her nose.
“Damn, Chica, look at those foot holders. You’re going to back up traffic to Calumet.”
Eden grinned, eyes sparkling behind huge sunglasses. She stood up before Carmelo made the steps and he gave her a peck on the cheek before leaning back to eye the shorts again.
“Dios, I wish I had legs like that.” He gave a shiver in the warm air before digging out keys for the front door.
“So why do you have Bo’s phone?” Eden asked as Carmelo opened the door and stepped inside. He punched a code into the beeping alarm before answering.
“You and Hortense don’t have the same phone, right? Don’t do it, I pick up Bo’s about twice a week. And Bogart…”
Carmelo had stepped into the front hall, dominated by a stairway with a gorgeous banister the boys had found in a
salvage store on the South Side and lovingly returned to buffed and polished glory. Eden had come in after him, but Carmelo stopped on the way to the kitchen and turned around while pulling the sleekest, newest iPhone from a pocket. It took him just a second to hit a number, then he held up the phone with his eyes looking up to one side. It was only a few seconds before a chirping came from up the stairs.
“And that would be my phone,” Carmelo said, ending the call. “Bogart forgets a phone here, one or the other, half the time. Cielos, I love that man, but he’d forget to put his pants on if his cajones didn’t get cold.”
“What, that’s not what first drew you to him?”
“Oh, Chica. Smart and sexy, Hortense is a lucky woman.”
Carmelo continued into the gorgeous kitchen with Eden following, and held both hands out at the restored kitchen table where Eden’s laptop waited, the case plastered with vulgar scratch n’ sniff stickers, peace signs, and a bumper sticker reading “I get along with God just fine. It’s His fan club that I can’t stand.”
“He fixed it?” Eden said, scooping the laptop into her arms like a baby she’d missed terribly.
“Good as new. He told me what he did, but I don’t know. Defrag the fraggle and re-jigger the carburetor, or something.”
Eden sighed, patting her beloved machine. “So what do I owe you guys?” Carmelo waved a hand.
“Bo says nothing, it was easy. ‘Sides, you’re a starving artist, Chica. We can’t just have Hortense always supporting your unemployable culo, pretty as it may be.”
Eden skipped over to Carmelo, beaming, and planted a wet one on his dark cheek that left a pink lipstick mark she rubbed at with her thumb.
“Still, you guys have got to let me cook you dinner or something. You doing anything this weekend? Come over to the house, I’ll make sure Hortense does her sweet potato pie.”
“That sounds great, really. I’ll tell Bo when he gets back.” Carmelo gestured back down the front hall, as he had to get back to work. Eden skipped in that direction clutching the laptop to her top.
“Where is he, anyway? I thought he was just working from here full time.”
“His buddy from the old law firm called, Garth Rzeczky. Went downtown to watch beisbol.”
Eden missed a skip, actually stumbling against a wall and nearly going face down on top of her newly repaired computer. She spun in the hallway so fast her hair whipped around, and stared at Carmelo with her eyes huge.
“Garth Rzeczky? Leslie Rzeczky at Hortense’s bank, her husband, Garth?”
Carmelo was staring, black eyebrows high. “Yeah, you know. We were all over there for the football playoffs that Sunday, when Bo and Garth were crying like babies. Then didn’t Garth do some work for you, or something? A contract? Hey, Eden, you okay? You look pasty even for a white girl.”
“What, what, what are they doing? Garth and Bo? Do they do that, watch games a lot? Like is this regular? Normal? Did Garth call Bogart, or did Bogart call Garth?”
“Eden?” Carmelo asked.
Eden had heard the panicked desperation in her own voice. She bit her lip and ran her tongue stud against the roof of her mouth, leaning against a wall.
“Shit, shit, shit. Carm, I did something stupid.”
Carmelo narrowed his dark eyes.
“Something stupid, or someone?”
*
Bogart got home around five, as he’d been talking to Garth for an hour after the game ended and had hit the start of traffic leaving downtown. He parked his jeep around back next to Carmelo’s Beemer, home a little early for him, and mounted the back stairs with a sigh, walking heavily. Lousy, stinking Detroit Tigers. When he opened the kitchen door, Carmelo was dumping an ashtray in a plastic bag and tying it tight so it wouldn’t stink up the garbage, though the smell of menthol smoke was in the air despite the open window.
“Who the hell was…” Bogart trailed off, then blinked and looked at the kitchen table. No laptop. “Crap, did Eden come by today?”
“Si,” Carmelo said, washing his hands at the sink. Bogart pointed an accusing finger between his shoulder blades.
“And you took my phone, again, this morning. That’s yours on the nightstand. Eden called you at work to let her in? Ha. Serves you right, phone thief.”
Carmelo turned around, looking good as always, but a little tired. He crossed his arms as he leaned back against the counter, and tilted his head to one side.
“Garth Rzeczky want to talk to you about anything important?”
“Oh…” Bogart shrugged, running a hand through his hair. Needed to get it cut one of these days, now that it was warm again. The gardens all around Chicago were in bloom, and there were many more gardens there than most people knew.
Bogart sighed. He and Carmelo had promised they wouldn’t keep secrets. So far, so good. “He thinks Leslie is stepping out on him.”
Carmelo arched an eyebrow. “Garth thinks Leslie is cheating on him?”
“Yeah. Straight people are a mess.”
Carmelo gave his most dramatic eye roll.
“Baby, it ain’t just the straight people. Everybody loco.”
#
M. Edward McNally is a dedicated and determined dawdler, and a lover of alliteration.
Find him at his blog https://sablecity.wordpress.com/ or follow him on Facebook and Twitter
Books by Ed:
The Sable City (Book I of the Norothian Cycle)
Death of a Kingdom (Book II of the Norothian Cycle)
The Wind from Miilark (Book III of the Norothian Cycle)
Eddie’s Shorts — Volume 1, 2, 3, and 4
Be Careful What You Wish For
Shéa MacLeod
Branwen had, quite frankly, had enough. She stared at the cupcake in her hand and considered throwing it against the wall. She decided instead that such behaviour was not only un-goddess-like, but would result in the waste of a perfectly good cupcake. So, she ate it.
“Mmmmm ... peanut butter. These humans really are quite clever.” She took another big bite of cupcake and moaned in ecstasy. Peanut butter cupcakes aside, humans were also incredibly annoying.
It hadn’t been her idea to live in this Podunk town in the middle of Nowhereville, America. All the good cities had already been taken by other deities. It hadn’t been her idea to work a dead end job and live in some crummy apartment and gain twenty pounds — okay, fifty — because of her cupcake addiction. She was depressed, dammit.
Oh, no. It had been the fault of those clever humans. Humans who decided they didn’t need the gods anymore, so the gods, and goddesses, had been relegated to living like mortals and scrounging for what crumbs of worship they could glean from modern humanity.
What really annoyed her was that these same humans who thought they were so intelligent and superior weren’t doing all that well on their own. Oh, no. If the divorce rate, crime rate, and sheer volume of whining were anything to go by, they could use a bit of divine intervention right about now. Did they ask? Of course not.
Stupid humans.
Quite possibly the most annoying human of all was her own next door neighbor. The self same neighbor that had driven her to her latest cupcake binge: Bob.
So, his name wasn’t really Bob, but she didn’t know his actual name so that’s what she called him in her head. And Bob was quite possibly the biggest whiner of them all.
One of the downsides of being a goddess was that one could easily hear through walls. And the travesty coming from Bob’s apartment was enough to turn a goddess gray before her time.
With a huff, she finished the last bite of cupcake, brushed the crumbs off her fuzzy pink bathrobe, gave the robe’s belt a good, hard cinch, and strode for the door. It was time to take action. No more Miss Nice Goddess.
Something had to be done.
She wrenched open her apartment door, stormed across the hall, and banged (with a great deal more force than necessary) on “Bob’s” door. There was silence from inside. Then the do
or creaked open.
“Yes?”
He really was incredibly good looking, for all he was wearing women’s pantyhose and a tragic shade of pink lipstick. His thick, chestnut hair curled just a little around nicely shaped ears and his nose and cheekbones would have done a Greek god proud. In fact, Branwen was half tempted to smite him just for having such ridiculously thick lashes. Honestly, if the man was going to wear women’s clothing he should learn to do it properly.
Branwen gave herself a good mental shake. She wasn’t here to ogle the man or give him tips on cross-dressing. She was here to teach him a lesson.
“So,” she said, flicking a cupcake crumb out of her cleavage. “You want to be a woman, do you?”
*
Ryan Roberts felt like crying. He really did. He knew it wasn’t macho or manly or whatever, but he couldn’t help it.
It had been bad enough having the women in the lingerie store staring at him like he was some kind of pervert. And now the stockings didn’t fit properly. The size chart must have been wonky. Or maybe his calves were too muscular from working out, but whatever it was, he’d put runs in two pairs of stockings and he was on his last tether.
“Shit, why couldn’t I have been born a woman? They have it so much easier.”
The banging on the door interrupted his pity party. Ryan didn’t have a lot of friends. Certainly none that would come knocking at this hour of night. With a frown he hurried to answer the door, only to find himself confronted by the strangest sight.
The top of the woman’s curly blond head barely came to his chest and she was nearly as wide as she was tall. Her pink cheeks matched her pink fuzzy robe, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t makeup. She looked furious. And was that a blob of icing on her cheek?
“So, you want to be a woman, do you?”
“Um ... “ Ryan wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.
“Listen, Bob ... ” she started.
“Ryan.”
“What?” She blinked big blue eyes in confusion.
“My name isn’t Bob. It’s Ryan.”
She shook her head, sending blond ringlets bouncing around her head. “Whatever. Listen, I am sick of your whining.”
“Excuse me?”
“You think it’s so easy being a woman? You think being a woman is all fancy silk panties and hot pink lipstick? You think your bras would fit better and your stockings wouldn’t run if you were a woman? Well, let me tell you, buddy, it ain’t that easy.” She crossed her arms over her chest, sending a shower of what looked like cake crumbs to the floor.