By the time Grace paid her cover charge and made her way into The Jambalaya, the place was almost pitch black and packed, the brightest lights focused on the small stage at the back of the long, narrow space.
She’d planned it that way, so she’d be able to slip up to the bar without being seen by any of the young college lesbians who had given her the heads-up on the poetry reading. The emcee looked like most of the young people on the town plaza, with dreads and a floppy reggae-style hat, tie-dyed T-shirt covered by a flannel plaid shirt and baggy cords held up by a belt that he’d probably woven from hemp himself. From the bar, she couldn’t see his feet, but she was sure he sported Birkenstocks with wool socks.
Her friends back in Houston teased her about people like this. When she’d told them about her job offer from Humboldt State, they’d immediately Googled the town, finding news about the city council proposing to ban drumming from the plaza. Looking at the pictures of panhandlers, they’d asked if it was a required dress code, and put dibs on the designer labels that filled her closet.
Despite the town’s casual leaning and the constant rain, Grace still felt most like herself in her form-fitting dresses and tailored straight-lined suits. In Houston, her friends counted on her to dazzle them with her wardrobe. One had teasingly posited that Grace never bought anything unless it had metallic thread, rhinestones or faux fur. She remembered how much they loved her calf-length zebra print coat. She wondered what the crowd here would think if she’d worn that instead of the less conspicuous black skirt suit that she hoped would let her move in and out of the bar unnoticed.
The emcee stepped aside for the first poet just as the bartender delivered her frou-frou sweet drink. She’d told him to make anything he wanted as long as it included pineapple juice. Her mind was on the drink and scoping out the audience, not on the poetry. The whole drive down to San Francisco and back last weekend, she’d kept returning to Gloria’s suggestion to involve herself in more local activities. So here she was.
She drank deeply from the cold glass, enjoying the immediate warmth that filled her body. She studied the space around her and compared it with the scene she’d left in Houston. There, she’d have shared a glass-topped table with her circle of friends from work instead of leaning an elbow on the bar. She missed the familiarity of the group but not the competitive spark that crackled through every conversation. When she’d taken the job writing grants for a prominent Texas museum, she accepted any invitation extended, always looking to network. Every choice was made with an eye to how it would position her for promotion or bolster her résumé.
Though they promised they’d always keep in touch and come to see her on the Northcoast, she knew it was just social politeness. They wouldn’t waste their time on someone who had stopped scrambling for the next impressive chance to outdo the others’ successes. She tried to picture them here at The Jambalaya, knowing very well that they would be rolling their eyes at the locals’ poetry and scrunching their noses at the patchouli wafting off the bar’s patrons.
She had hoped the small-town atmosphere would help her adopt a more laid-back attitude, but the voices of her friends kept inserting their critiques, overpowering the poets. Grace tried to concentrate, but after failing multiple times, she downed the rest of her drink, intending to leave.
An ancient woman made her way to the stage as Grace stood to go. She eased herself back onto the stool. Her mother had raised her better than to walk out on a crone. Remembering this picked the scab off the hurt of losing her mother long before she’d had a chance to be a crone herself.
The younger poets had adopted that self-possessed almost rap-like delivery of a poetry slam. This woman voiced her words without such posturing. Grace wished she were closer to the stage, so she could focus on the woman’s lips as she read a poem about drinking her garden in a cup of tea. As she read, the text of her poem on a long scroll of paper crawled through her fingers, pouring over the music stand that served as a podium. Grace could see those weathered fingers working the soil to produce the flowers named in the poem.
The scroll draped like a fishing line waiting for a bite, and Grace realized as the poet began reading the poem from the bottom back to the top, pulling it in just as slowly as she had let it out, that she was hooked, her whole attention held through the second traipsing through the garden poem and into another called “Strawberries.”
“There she was
naked to the morning
to the strawberries
and to me.”
Grace reached into her briefcase and pulled out a notepad, jotting down the words before she forgot them. She sat, hand poised over the pad as the woman continued. She pictured her holding a naked woman in her arms, “her body memorized in my hands.”
The last line jotted down, she joined in the applause for Ruth Mountaingrove, a favorite judging by the reaction of the crowd. A young woman stood and offered her hand as Ruth stepped away from the mike, guiding her back to their table.
Rooted now, Grace scanned the audience full of women and could feel how present they were in the room, captured by each voice that took the stage. This was the community Gloria and Kristine had talked about. Here they were, gathered in reverence for the written word, with Grace’s attitude the only thing stopping her from being included herself.
From that moment, she listened intently and allowed herself to turn her face to observe the audience in between poets without worrying that the young lesbian who brought her the flyer would spot her. She found herself disappointed when the emcee returned to the stage to thank all of the evening’s poets.
“But don’t get up yet. I have one more request,” he said. “Please welcome to the stage my good friend Buzz. He’ll wrap things up here with a song.”
A bearded man who looked more lumberjack than hippie took the stage in his heavy boots and jeans, scruffing at his beard with his hand to hide his reaction to the applause. He strapped a guitar around his shoulder and tipped his head to acknowledge the young woman who lit up the stage with a sparkling smile. “Jen’s helping me out tonight and next Thursday when we’ll do a whole set down at Café Mokka.”
He met the young woman’s eyes, synchronized their beat and they launched into song. Buzz knew what he was doing on his six-string guitar, but it was the woman with her violin who took Grace’s breath away.
All of the brightness of the woman herself came through the strings as she pulled the bow across them, leaning into notes to give her instrument voice as she accompanied her friend’s folksy tune about the ocean. The style was far from what Grace played on her cello. However, someone who could coax such a pure tone from the violin was clearly a skilled player and it was easy to imagine playing with her.
Grace was genuinely disappointed when the song ended. As they returned their instruments to the carrying cases along the wall, people lined up to talk to them. Grace longed to get in line herself to inquire about the violinist’s repertoire and possible interest in playing something more classical, but spotting the young woman who had dropped off the flyer deterred her.
She briefly entertained the idea of talking to Ruth Mountaingrove, but she, too, was surrounded by a large group of admirers. Giving up, she slipped out into the night. She drove out of town out to the bottoms, a flat stretch of farmland between the town and the bay, where she rented a small two-bedroom house.
Inside, she logged onto her computer and did a quick search to see if Ruth had any poetry published. Reading through her bio, she furrowed her brow and slipped into her chair, curious about the description of Mountaingrove as a lesbian photographer. She quickly revised her search to include photography and clicked on an archive at the University of Oregon, finding more than a hundred photographs.
She clicked through the images, most of them captured in an intentional community, mesmerized by Mountaingrove’s frank presentation of women working, celebrating, loving. She kicked herself for not approaching the poet after the event. Navigating away from the pictures, she searched for contact information, scanning through articles describing Mountaingrove’s works and contributions.
Reading that Mountaingrove had coordinated several shows of feminist and lesbian photographs, she frowned when she heard the popping bottle cap that signaled a message on her phone. She retrieved it and pulled up the text from her sister.
You still up?
The contact, especially at the late hour surprised her. Of course. Everything okay?
Not working, are you?
Part of her motivation for accepting the job at Humboldt State was that she’d be closer to her sister, yet in the ten months that she’d been in Arcata, she had only been up to Oregon to see her for a handful of holidays. The chaos of following tradition left her feeling that though they had spent time together, they hadn’t really visited at all.
Getting ready for bed.
Distracted by Leah, she closed her search and shut down the computer. She considered calling but changed for bed while she waited for Leah’s reply.
We need to talk about Tyler.
An icy wave crashed over Grace. What’s he done now? she typed, teeth clamped.
Nothing. But we need to talk about what’s best for him.
Grace didn’t want to talk to her sister. Any time they talked about Tyler, they ended up fighting, and she was too tired to fight tonight. She took a deep breath trying to remember the last time she’d spoken to her brother. The only thing she was able to recall was her heartbreak in hearing the demands and anger in his voice instead of atonement. It had taken her a long time to realize and accept that even if he was sorry, words were never going to repair the hurt he had caused. She’d cut him off completely, and when Leah had started talking about the challenges of having Tyler live with her family, Grace had begun to avoid contact with her sister as well. I have an early meeting tomorrow, she lied. Before Leah could reply, Grace texted goodnight and switched off her phone.