The lesbian dilemma…
If Amanda thought Friday was hectic, Saturday at Metrolina was chaos on steroids. The entire fairground, not just Building 16, was crowded with buyers. By early afternoon she had sold most of her small pieces, so customers were disappointed by her lack of selection. Even as she calculated how much more inventory she would need to produce by the next show, she worried whether she could keep up if she also accepted a large commission for Wells Fargo. Basically, she was running on adrenaline, so she was thrilled when Diana and Trout showed up.
She first saw Trout’s head above the crowds, and then her mother’s wide smile as she spotted Amanda.
“Come in, welcome!” She pulled them into her booth, deeply touched that they had come. She hadn’t expected it, even though they’d both expressed interest in her work.
“Wow!” Diana’s eyes widened and she spread her arms as she took it all in. “Your art is magnificent, Mandy. I really love it!” She picked up a small abstract sailboat, the only one of six left.
Trout went straight to the Wing Chair with the chrome bumper armrests. He sat in its crushed velvet cushions. “I feel right at home here, Mandy Bear. If I’m not mistaken, this was once a 1954 Cadillac. Am I right?”
Lately he’d taken to calling her Mandy Bear, and she kind of liked it. “I’m not sure, Trout. When I scavenged it, there were only pieces.”
“Did you ever consider rigging one of these chairs with headlights or taillights? You could hide the electric switch under the arm and dazzle folks.”
Amanda laughed. “You like that sailboat, Mom? It’s yours.”
Suddenly her mother seemed stunned and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. While Amanda tried to understand what she’d said to cause such a strange reaction, the odd moment passed.
Diana hugged the gift and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “It looks like you’ve about sold out. Congratulations, Mandy.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
When her mother startled again, Amanda finally understood. She had called her Mom rather than Diana—the first time she’d made this slip since moving to North Carolina. Obviously her mother had been hurt by the vicious little vendetta she’d been waging, and for this she was deeply ashamed.
Her mother quickly recovered and said, “So, why don’t you take a break? Matthew and I can watch your booth. I know you’re hungry.”
“We’ll sell all your stuff.” Trout waved her on her way. “When you come back, there’ll be nothing left, and we can all go home.”
Amanda didn’t need a second invitation. Before this show was over, she was determined to see the famous Lincoln-Davis letter, and even more determined to spend some quality time with Sara without making a fool of herself.
As she made her way toward the café, she saw Jack Harris rolling his big dollhouse out of the building, a happy customer in tow. She saw a dozen ladies in June’s booth picking through the purses and porcelain, all chirping like happy parakeets. When she finally made it to the Orlandos’ space, she saw Sara showing off the large carved window seat. Her display really was nice, with June’s quilt for color. Amanda made a mental note not to trip over it this time.
“Hey, Sara, can I buy you a late lunch?” she called.
“That’s not fair!” Marc piped up. He was sitting at a makeshift desk, counting cash. “You owe me, not Sara.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it looks like she’s working harder, so she gets the break. We’ll bring you something, Marc.”
Before he could give her more grief, Amanda took Sara’s arm and maneuvered her into the hall. She started guiding her toward the café.
But Sara stopped dead. “Wait, don’t you want to see Thigpen’s letter? I’ve been here two days and haven’t gotten a look at it. Aren’t you curious?”
“Sure I am, but we’ll have to wait in line.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got time.” Sara smiled.
The entrance was cordoned off with theater ropes to control the flow of traffic. The press of humanity caused Sara and Amanda to bump hips, but Amanda didn’t mind. Too soon they were inside amid all the lethal instruments of war.
“Look at this awful thing.” Sara picked up something that looked like a hammer. “This is a fighting tomahawk, check it out. This side has a blade sharp as a razor, the other has a point perfect for punching holes in someone’s head.”
“That’s disgusting.” Amanda had a tomboy’s appreciation of weaponry, but as Sara gripped the handle and hefted the thing, even she was somewhat repelled. The tomahawk had been displayed on an innocent-looking red silk scarf. “You better put it back, Sara.”
“Yes, young lady, you must put it back!” The angry voice came from a small, pink-faced man in old-fashioned round, rimless spectacles. He snatched the tomahawk with his white-gloved hands. “This is an SOG tactical tomahawk, made famous in the Vietnam War. It is not a toy.”
“So sorry.” Sara held up both hands in surrender. “I work at the booth across the hall, by the way. I’m Sara Orlando, pleased to meet you.”
The man was not impressed. “I am Carlson Porter, Mr. Thigpen’s brother-in-law, and I suggest you keep your hands to yourself.”
“She said she was sorry, now can we move on?” Amanda had known her fair share of shrimp-sized men with a whale-sized chip on their shoulders, and she liked them less with every encounter. It didn’t help that Mr. Porter was wearing a vintage sailor suit straight out of HMS Pinafore.
“That must be Maribelle Porter over there,” Amanda whispered to Sara. “Mr. Thigpen’s sister.” June Harris had supplied the catty scoop on this woman, whom she had described as “Prissy Miss Perfect,” who thought of herself as “royalty.” She was tall and thin like Mr. Thigpen, with long white hair pinned up in a severe bun. She was dressed in a World War I nurse’s uniform and serving a dark red punch to the paying customers.
“Is that blood she’s pouring?” Sara giggled.
“Isn’t it too early for Halloween?” Amanda joined in the mean girl fun, but then suddenly they were standing in front of the famous letter, which was truly impressive.
Amanda had experience as a custom framer, so she saw immediately that the precious document was properly mounted in an acid-free shadow box with museum-quality, ultraviolet-proof Plexiglas. This way it was safe from foxing, fading, and even breakage. “Nice job,” she muttered. “I wonder if it’s real?” She still had her doubts.
Just then Mr. Thigpen, who had been standing nearby like a proud soldier, stepped forward to scowl at her. Rather than face his wrath, Amanda dropped the subject of authenticity. She took Sara’s elbow. “Let’s get outta here.”
In fact they had no choice in the matter, because all the curious onlookers were being herded past the artifact faster than cattle down the chute to their slaughter.
By the time they got out, both were giggling like schoolgirls. They were also in close proximity to the exhibitors’ private bathroom.
“I have my key,” Amanda said. “And I really need to go.”
“I’m good, so you go ahead, Amanda. I’ll save a place for us in the café.”
As Amanda ducked into the restroom and carefully set the new hook lock into its eye, she was happy that Sara always remembered her name. She liked the way it sounded like music when Sara spoke it. She also preferred how Sara was dressed today, in a soft cotton shirt, jeans and tennis shoes. Her long black hair was loose on her shoulders and she wore no makeup. She was less the professional shrink, more like the magical Madonna spotlighted in a conical beam of sunshine the day of Amanda’s epiphany.
As she considered this, she glanced again at the colorful ads framed on the bathroom wall. They were likely from the 1940s. On the left, a sexy blonde with a red kerchief was enjoying a classic Coke. On the right, a pretty brunette in pink plastic rollers was blissfully using a new, state-of-the-art Sunbeam hairdryer. Amanda chuckled:
We’ve come a long way, baby.
When she emerged from the restroom, she spotted Sara seated at a round table for two at the far end of the café. The joint was jumping, standing room only, so Amanda was grateful not only that Sara had snagged them a seat, but also that she’d ordered them both iced tea.
“Just what I wanted.” She slid into the wire Popsicle chair beside Sara. “I like a woman who takes charge.”
“So do I.” They clinked glasses. “Now that we’re finally alone, tell me about Amanda Rittenhouse.”
Was she flirting? “Yeah, we’re alone with about a hundred other people. What do you want to know?”
“What matters?” Sara tilted her head and offered an enigmatic smile.
Amanda was pretty good at reading signals, and her gaydar was excellent. But with Sara, she couldn’t be sure. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”
Sara laughed. It was that raucously throaty sound that reminded Amanda of the Liberty Bell. “I’m off-duty, Amanda, but it’s a professional hazard. People always think I’m trying to get into their heads, so why don’t you ask the questions?”
Now that stopped her cold. She had imagined this meeting many times, and while there were plenty of personal things she was dying to ask, she couldn’t bring herself to voice a single one of them. “Do you like burgers, or tuna? Are you a vegan? Maybe we should order?”
Again that laugh. Sara held up a number. “Already done. I got two corned beefs on rye, with coleslaw. Did I do good?”
“Very good, but this was supposed to be my treat.”
“No problem.” She passed Amanda the bill. “You can reimburse me, and when they call my name, you can pick up the food.”
Amanda liked Sara’s aggressiveness, it was way beyond sexy—teasing, without pushing it. She fine-tuned her senses and again tried to decide: flirting, or not? Too soon the loudspeaker called Sara’s name, and Amanda left the table. The debate continued while she waited for the food. Too often she’d mistaken a woman’s friendliness for something more, especially when she wanted it to be so. Most likely Sara was just looking for a pal, leaving any romantic entanglement to her twin brother. It was the lesbian dilemma. Should she make a move, or would that one step take her straight off the tightrope?
She picked up their bag, the debate still raging as she moved back to the table, but when she got there, all bets were off. Because Sara was gone, nowhere in sight.
Vanished into thin air.