Try Whistling Chopin
by
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A message on my answering machine, left only minutes before, told me there would be no tapes to transcribe until Friday. Before I had a chance to analyze the consequences of no work, the phone rang again. "Hi, it's Babs." My stomach did a peculiar flip-flop. "Sorry to bother you." My knees felt weak. "That's okay," I mumbled. "Did I leave a small sack there? Probably in the living room. I bought some things at a heath food store on the way to you, but I don't seem to have them now." My palms were wet. "Hold on, I'll look." I put the phone down and went into the living room to find an old, beat-up black, cloth sack next to the sofa. I carried it back to the phone. "Babs?" I said, "I'm holding it in my hand." "Pretty grubby, isn't it! My oldest daughter made it in Home Ec class, eighth grade. I promised never to throw it away. Now every time I pick it up I hope it will disintegrate." She laughed. "Look, would you mind if I came right over to get it? I know you said you had to go to work. Maybe you could leave it outside for me?" "No! I mean yes." I started over. "I mean, no, I don't have to go to work and yes, come get it. I'll be here." "It'll be about fifteen minutes. Thanks." She hung up. The living room firelight was devilishly inviting and, after two trips to the woodpile, the hopper was full. Lady-Girl had followed me in and out, bringing in her share of sticks. I hung up my jacket, signaling that "outside" was over, then watched the fire lick at the cold logs. They began to burn. A half-hour evaporated. God. Would she never come? The Chevy screeched in at the usual breakneck speed. "Well, Lady, I guess that's the norm. Maybe we should get used to it." I met Babs at the sliding door. "Hi," she said. "Hi," I said back. I might have handed her the bag at the door. She might have taken it and gone away. Somehow, that would have been too ordinary. "Your Home Ec commitment is next to the sofa." "Oh, thanks so much," she said, and walked ahead of me into the living room. The logs were ablaze. Babs stood still, transfixed before the fire. "Did you want to talk about something?" I asked. She hesitated, then shrugged no. "You're more than welcome to stay. Turns out, I'm free after all." The air crackled around us. I tried to ignore the electricity, but it was surprisingly exhilarating, thinking someone might be on the prowl for me. "Maybe you'd like fresh tea?" I asked, hoping to extend her stay. She spoke and the trance was broken. "I think what I want is a glass of sparkling water, if you have some." Her eyes flickered in the firelight. What else was on her mind? A few butterflies began to hop around my stomach as I went to get the fizzy drink. I told myself, "Take it easy. There's plenty of time. Don't make a fool of yourself." I poured myself a glass of Zinfandel before returning to the firelight. Babs had tossed her coat over the love seat. She was now settled on her knees at the hearth, using the fire tongs to rearrange the logs. Then, she looked up. "Shall I put on more wood?" God. She was beautiful, and certainly provocative. "Sure," I answered, and set her drink on the end table. Soon, the room was bathed in strips of wavy orange and blue light. "We have a fireplace," Babs began, still focused on the flames, "but it's not used much. Actually, the living room in my house isn't used much by anybody at all. Well, maybe Penny, to do her homework. Most of my time is spent in the kitchen or in my bedroom." She laughed as if her confession was some private joke, then glanced at me, perhaps embarrassed. I couldn't quite tell. "Isn't that peculiar?" she said. "Is it?" I managed to say, wondering why she had said "my bedroom" and not "our bedroom" or at least "the bedroom." Babs added a log to the fire, closed the screen and watched the results. I was seated on the floor nearby. She looked around the room, then said, "Someone lives here with you." It was more of a statement than a question. "Yes," I answered and changed the subject. "I've started something new I like very much." Babs cocked her head to one side waiting to hear more. "Takes place in a hotel in France. I'm trying to show that couples in love say the same things regardless of sex or age, so I use some of the same dialogue for each." I couldn't believe how matter of fact I was being. By now, I wanted to hold this woman. I wanted to run my hands over her body. I wanted us to be naked, resting against each other, touching. I wanted us to be lovers.
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About the Book
In depth lesbian relationship between single "out" playwright, Jennie Clark, and closeted stage director, Barbara Matthews, married and mother of two teenage daughters. As the two women are drawn into an all consuming affair, Jennies accepts an LA based offer to write the book for an 18th century French musical. Under the guise of research, she whisks Babs away to the "City of Lights." For three glorious weeks, the couple explores Paris, Pigalle, northern France, and each other. Once back in the States, Jennie departs for LA. The work goes smoothly and within three months, a backers audition takes place. Ironically, the next morning, word is received that the rights have been sold out from under the LA producer. Jennie's Broadway breakthrough is scuttled. Jennie, relieved to be home, struggles with her new play, writing strong lesbian characters. Babs' career, however, takes a sudden jump forward when she becomes head of the Theatre Department at an impressive Community Center. Babs becomes increasingly fearful of being discovered in an "unacceptable" liaison. When Jennie is offered an Off-Broadway theatre, rent-free, to produce her new play, she immediately asks Babs to direct. During a pre-production break, Jennie and Babs spend a warm summer evening strolling through Greenwich Village. The couple stops at Crazy Mary's, an off-beat lesbian bar where they encounter the Rasp, a two hundred-fifty pound bouncer, protective of her leather-clad clientele and hostile to the uptown slightly uptight couple. Jennie treats the incident with her usual candid humor. For Babs, however, every negative thought and feeling regarding her lesbian-self is reinforced. Jennie realizes she and Babs have perpendicular views of lesbian. At age forty-five, Jennie is forced to take a hard look into her own psychological flaws and reexamine her values.
About the Author
This mid-Westerner hails from Wisconsin. Always interested in drama, after high school she attended the Fred Miller Theatre School in Milwaukee. Following graduation, she got her start on the stage doing summer stock in Illinois, then relocated to New York. Though she found work at times in both summer and winter stock, and a few off-Broadway flops, bills were paid mostly by her employment at hundreds of part time jobs. Writing soon became more important than performing and the author returned to school, attending Post Grad classes at Hunter College (NYC) in play and screen writing. OPTION, a play written in 1981, appeared on Theatre Row in the same year and HOTEL BRENEY, written in 1986, was produced in 1987 within the same venue. Ms. Whitcomb currently lives in Pennsylvania on a mountaintop with a four-footed stray found years ago in Brooklyn, a Doberman/Labrador mix she calls "Mr. Dog." This is her first novel.