The Heart Begins Here by Jacqueline Dumas

Author:Jacqueline Dumas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2018-03-25T04:00:00+00:00

13.

SIX-THIRTY A.M. I WAS BACK on the lanai, Wanda out on another of her so-called picture-taking excursions.

The phone rang. I jumped. I had given the hotel number to only Trish and Carmen. Was Carmen calling to report that a publisher was threatening some sort of drastic action?

But no, it was my mother.

“Finally,” she said. “What a time. I phoned that bookstore of yours to find out where you’re staying, but it’s like pulling teeth to get any information out of that Mexican girl of yours.”

“She’s from Chile.”

“Mexico, Chile, what’s the difference? Your own mother and she wouldn’t give me the number. I finally had to pretend it was an emergency.”

I made a mental note to call Carmen to let her know that everything was okay.

To my knowledge, my mother had never been to the bookstore, although she had to know it was the lesbian bookstore that was in the news now and again. It wasn’t as if she didn’t read the newspaper or watch TV.

“How’s your skin?”

“Fine,” I lied.

“Are you all right, Marguerite? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Everything’s great.” As if I ever divulged anything of importance to my mother. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“It must be the heat,” said my mother. “Too bad you’re missing the weather here. It’s perfect. And it’s the feast day of Florus and Lorus. You know, the twin martyrs that were drowned in a well for destroying pagan idols. And wouldn’t you know, our parish is holding a rally for those thousands of baby martyrs who are murdered in their mothers’ wombs every day. I’m making signs for it as we speak. Those poor babies. They’re the most helpless of the helpless, and we must do everything in our power to protect them. Mrs. Kobash and her daughter are picking me up. They’re very close, you know, Mrs. Kobash and her daughter. The daughter’s name is Luba. You’ve probably heard of her: Luba Kobash. She writes poems for those greeting cards you see in all the drugstores. They’re for sale all over the country. All the malls have them.”

My mother was also making potato salad for the church potluck after the rally.

Church potlucks are probably no worse than the lesbian ones I’ve come to dread. Lesbians seem to gravitate to potlucks like beer drinkers to peanuts.

It’s not so much that I mind the cooking; it’s more that whatever I make is guaranteed to be the one dish left over at the end of the party.

My introduction to the lesbian potluck experience was at Alice’n’Peggy’s. Wanda had refused to go, but I was excited. It was my first ever invitation to a lesbian gathering of any kind, and when Alice’n’Peggy suggested I bring a pot of chili, I decided to make it from scratch, although I had never so much as baked a bean in my life.

Trish said not to worry; she had a foolproof recipe.

The eve of the potluck, I put the beans (what seemed a reasonable amount for twelve or fifteen people) out to soak as Trish had instructed.

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