'Seen much of Cleveland?' she asked as she pulled out of the motel.
'Not much,' I said.
'Haven't had the time.'
'Think your wallet can stand it if we go a little fancy?'
'Sure. Where do you want to go?'
'Shaker Heights.' We drove for almost half an hour. She did most of the talking. She described what it was like to live in Cleveland-though she'd been born and raised there, she didn't like the city much. She felt trapped, she said, but didn't have an alternative, at least for now. If she could have her way, she'd live in a warm tropical place.
She'd spent a year in Florida once, but then she'd moved back when things had soured for her there.
She liked being a bartender-it was a job she. knew how to do. Normally she worked the night shift, but this was summer, vacation time, so this particular week she was filling in days. As for being topless, that was the required costume for the job. Personally she didn't care. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and it was actually comfortable, what with all the heat and humidity the last few months.
The ambience at the bar where she took me was a far cry from the place where she worked. An attractive young woman, in a long evening dress, sat at a white piano playing Cole Porter tunes. The air conditioning worked, the lighting was subdued, and the customers looked affluent and relaxed. A buzz of lively chatter and the tinkle of cocktail glasses and ice played against the music and filled the room with a sophisticated hum.
'What do you think?' she asked, after she ordered a champagne cocktail.
'Pretty nice,' I said.
'Yeah. And special for me too. I feel real nostalgic whenever I come in here. Fell in love here once. In this very room.'
'What happened?'
'The usual.'
'What's that?'
'Oh, you know-it lasted awhile, then it ended.' She pulled out a cigarette. I lit it for her. She inhaled, then pensively stirred her drink. She looked at me.
'You're a nice guy.'
'Thanks. I try to be.'
'Which is why I'm going to tell you something personal, which you may not be too happy to hear.'
'Go ahead.'
'I like all kinds of people. But romantically speaking it's different.
Given a choice between a guy and a galI'll usually take the girl.'
'No problem,' I said.
'I already figured that.' You did? Really? That's because you're from the East.
'I told you, Grace-I wasn't looking for sex.'
'Appreciate that. Always feel better once that's settled.' She took another long draw, then stubbed out her cigarette.
'The person you fell in love with here-was she a girl?' I asked.
'Yeah, that she certainly was.' Grace grinned and shook her head. 'Hard being gay in Cleveland?'
'Little bit. But people don't mess with me.'
'they accept you.'
'Don't know if they 'accept' exactly. But they know I don't take any shit.'
The girl at the piano was playing 'I Get a Kick out of You.
Grace nodded to the music.
'Love this tune. Makes me feel, I don't know-kind of squishy inside…
We ate dinner at a little Italian place in the Murry Hill section just above Western Reserve University. It was the kind of inexpensive graduate-student joint you don't find easily in New York these days-small, friendly, with Neapolitan cuisine, dishes like chicken cacciatore and eggplant parmigiana, and that wonderful old clichd, a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle on a red-and-white checked tablecloth.
I was pleased with the way Grace had opened up; all she needed, it seemed, was a good empathetic listener. So I worked hard playing that role, lavishing her with compassion, telling her about an imaginary lesbian couple I knew in Boston, wonderful creative women, trying for years to adopt a child, but people were intolerant. Wasn't it ridiculous? But that's the way people were. they always hated what they didn't understand, and sometimes they hated because they understood too well.
She looked up at me as she was spooning up the last of her spumoni.
'I may not have sex with guys, but I give a hell of a mean massage.
Worked as a masseuse for a couple of years. Still do it a little on the side to make extra bucks.' She winked.
'Interested?'
'Sure, I'm interested,' I said, 'so long as we don't have to do it at my motel.'
She laughed.
'Course not. Got a room specially set up for it at the house. No charge either, not for you. You've been real nice. Fair exchange, seems to me, for a good evening on the town.'
We stopped first at my motel, so I could pick up my car. I rather liked the idea of openly following her, without having to worry about being spotted. She fascinated me: a brassy balls-up dame tending an emotional wound. Had Kim played sultry 'femme' to Grace's earthy diesel'? I couldn't imagine two women more opposite.
Even while Grace was unlocking the door of her house I could hear the dog yelping inside. When it saw me, it stood up on its hind legs and barked.
'Heidi! Stop that! Don't bark at the nice man!' Heidi lowered herself and sniffed suspiciously at my shoe.
'She's into feet.' Grace smiled.
'Heavy crotch worship too.'
Grace quickly attached a leash to Heidi's collar, and headed for the door.
'Be back in a minute. Make yourself at home. Bathroom's upstairs if you need it.' Then she took the dog outside.
Heading up the stairs, I prayed Heidi had a very full bladder, full enough to allow me a good look around. As it happened, I hit pay dirt as soon as I entered Grace's bedroom. There was a collection of framed photos nicely arranged on the dresser. One of them, a color shot, showed Grace and Kim sitting together cross-legged on a boat, smiling and gleeful, arms buddy style across each other's shoulders.
I trembled a bit as I picked up the picture. It appeared to have been taken in Southern waters. There were palms on the shoreline and the kind of waterfront condos one finds all up and down the Florida coast.
But the most striking thing about the shot, the thing that made my heart beat fast, was the curious position of their hands. Not the hands they used to cup each other, but the hands that lay free in their laps. The forefinger of each was pointed directly at the other's ankle, which seemed to be the source of all their glee.
'Jim?' It was Grace, returned with Heidi, calling to me from downstairs. I set the photograph back down on the bureau.
'Up here.'
'When you're ready, come down to the cellar,' she yelled.
I picked up the picture again, squinted at a section of it, trying to make it out. Grace seemed to be pointing to the very spot on Kimberly's ankle where she had that curious tattoo. Kim had told me it had been done in Florida by an Oriental woman. Grace had told me she'd spent a year in Florida. The initials were right too: K for Kimberly, G for Grace.
I found her in the cellar in a kind of workout room. There were free weights, an exercise bicycle and a set of arm pulleys attached to the wall. She stood before a professional massage table, covered with dark brown vinyl. Heidi sat quietly panting by her feet.
'Strip down and get on,' she said, giving the table a slap.
'Be with you in a sec. Going upstairs to change.'
