Chapter Eight

"How's my favorite un-in-law?" Graciela said. She was dancing with the dogs, one set of front paws of each dog on her forearms and singing, "It's raining dogs, hallelujah," instead of men, her homage to a much played song in the gay bars during the Nineties. "It's raining dogs, hallelujah," she continued much to Chase's chagrin as she entered the sunroom. The writers had left and their new houseguest had arrived.

"I'm fine. How's the incorrigible one doing? Did you like the prison food?"

"Absolutely epicurean."

Graciela was Gitana's spiky-haired younger sister and there was a lot of family resemblance—the same soulful, when it was expedient, almond-shaped eyes, slightly turned up nose and sculpted lips. Graciela was stouter and taller. Gitana had been in charge of their relationship until Graciela grew big enough to pin her down and demand obedience, which was nearly always

forthcoming as Gitana couldn't breathe.

Gitana smirked. "She cost us a five pop."

"Five hundred dollars. You hardly look worth it and you smell."

"It's cow shit. Maybe I should go take a shower."

"I think that's a great idea," Gitana said. She shooed the dogs outside. Graciela had wound them up and they needed to decompress. "Go play."

They took off, running a figure-eight pattern around the grove of trees, chasing one another.

"Nice ring you got there, sis. What's the occasion?"

Chase rubbed Gitana's belly. She got the reference immediately. Graciela had a new girlfriend and had disappeared into the land of we're-having-sex-and-can't-be-bothered-with-the-rest-of-the-world so she hadn't heard any of the news.

"You should come around more often," Chase said. She straightened out the dog beds which had gotten dragged around the room earlier.

"Dude, how'd you do that?" Graciela's question was addressed to Chase.

"I grew an extra part like the kits that grow sea monkeys. I bought it off the Internet."

Graciela gaped at Chase's crotch. Chase and Gitana burst out laughing.

"I knew it was a joke. I did."

"No, you didn't," Gitana said.

"For a minute, maybe," Graciela said, coming over to stroke Gitana's belly. "I didn't know you guys were planning on having a baby."

"We weren't," Chase said.

"What the fuck? It's not like Gitana's birth control failed."

"She was having, or rather she was supposed to be having, a pap smear. Next door there was a woman having artificial insemination. The nurse got the charts mixed up."

"Okay, now that's freaky. Mama must be pretty stoked. She

always wanted a grandbaby and with the dyke sisters the forecast didn't look good."

"Well, if you weren't such a copycat," Gitana said.

Chase opened the door and dumped out the dogs' dirt-filled water bowl and refilled it with the hose. Jane often used the water bowl as a ball wash for her muddy tennis balls.

"I couldn't help it," Graciela said.

Gitana, tired of standing, sat in one of the chairs in the sun-room. Graciela lounged on one of the banquets, brushing aside the dirt. The dogs liked the banquets as well.

"But according to most scientific evidence genetics do not play a part in determining sexual persuasion," Chase said, as she straightened out the coat rack. She looked around the room and deemed it tidy.

"I know I've been out of the loop, but Mama would have told me, right?"

"She doesn't know yet. We're going to tell her when we drop you off Sunday night after you're released from jail."

"She thinks I'm still in jail," Graciela said. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.

"Yes, which means you're spending the weekend here in our custody. I'm not getting on Mama's shit list. She thinks you deserve to stay in jail," Gitana informed her.

"Oh," Graciela said, looking mournfully at her cell phone.

Chase could tell Graciela was weighing her options. Jail was bad, but the quiet country life wasn't necessarily better. "Tonight, we can watch the second season of The L Word, which I'm sure you haven't seen because you're always out living it up and Saturday night I invited my writers group for dinner."

Graciela twirled her forefinger in indication of her enthusiasm.

"One of the women, Delia, writes erotic lesbian stories and her fictional shenanigans put yours to shame. She wants to meet you."

Gitana gave Chase a look. "Please don't encourage her."

"They would have crossed paths eventually. They both go to the bar. At least this way, we can monitor it."

"This is sounding better already. I should text Andrea and tell her I'm out of commission for the weekend. She's not going to like that. I hope you have beer." Graciela wrote a quick text message.

Chase watched her fingers fly across the keypad. "I wish I could type that fast."

Graciela smiled. "Lots of practice."

"Like I don't practice. Come on, let's go get a beer."

They went inside to the kitchen. Chase got both of them a Corona and cut up a lime, inserting a slice into the bottles.

Gitana was counting dinnerware. "Chase, I don't think we have enough plates or proper glasses for a dinner party."

Chase took a swig of beer and went to peer in the cupboard. Graciela sat at the kitchen island and texted her response to what appeared to be a vitriolic message from Andrea. "Boy, is she pissed."

"No fault but your own," Gitana said.

Gitana was right—they didn't have enough dinnerware. They never entertained and over the years things had been broken and never replaced. This had come to Chase's attention from time to time after loading the dishwasher and discovering there was not one remaining plate, fork, spoon or dish to be had in the cupboards.

"We just don't have dinner parties. I mean, usually," Gitana said as she looked in the flatware drawer.

"It's part of my new socialization plan. I don't want the baby to grow up to be a hermit. The kid will be weird before school even starts. We can't have that. I'll take Graciela shopping. She can go in disguise. Do you still have that floral print summer dress?"

"I'm not wearing a fucking dress."

Chase laughed. Gitana said, "Now, that I'd like to see. Mama wouldn't recognize you at least."

"I'll go naked before I wear a dress."

"All right, but you are going to wear a ball cap and dark glasses," Chase said.

"No Williams-Sonoma," Gitana said, pouring a glass of lemonade.

"You read my mind. How about the Pottery Barn?"

"That'll work."

Chase sniffed at the pitcher of lemonade. "Is that fresh squeezed?"

"Yeah, she picked them off the lemon tree out back," Graciela said, still texting furiously.

"Of course not. It's one of those powdered mixes."

Chase peered at the pitcher of lemonade. Graciela got a glass and poured it half full and then she added beer. Her phone chimed and she sat back down to finish the texting argument with Andrea.

"That's disgusting," Chase said.

"No, it's not. The lemonade tastes fine to me," Graciela said, smacking her lips.

"How would you know? You put beer in yours."

"What's wrong with the lemonade?" Gitana asked.

"It's full of chemicals," Chase said, snatching the pitcher away and pouring it down the drain. "It's bad for the baby."

"She's going to be a real pain in the ass," Graciela commented to Gitana.

"She already is."

Chase ignored them. She was making out a list of needed dishware. "Do we have a tablecloth?"

"I don't think so."

"Linen napkins?"

"No."

Chase added those to her list. She sipped her beer and peered in cupboards again. "Serving platter?"

"No." Gitana opened the freezer and read the label on a can of frozen orange juice.

"Let me see the ingredients. It might have polysorbate five or something," Chase said. She read the label. "It's fine. Concentrated orange juice. That's good."

Graciela rolled her eyes.

"If you prefer lemonade I'll pick you up some organic lemons," Chase said, trying to be conciliatory.

"What are we having for eats at this dinner party?" Graciela asked.

"Something good," Chase said, not meeting Gitana's gaze.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Oh, I thought we'd have a rack of lamb." Chase didn't look at her. She couldn't cook worth a shit and everyone knew it. Simple fare she could handle, but the exotic usually ended badly.

"Why don't we have steak instead? We could put them on the George Foreman. A rack of lamb would heat up the house," Gitana said.

Although it was late April it was hardly ungodly hot in the evenings, but Chase got her drift. "Good point. We'll go shopping first thing in the morning. You can push the cart," she said, pointing at Graciela.

"I can hardly wait." Graciela went to the pantry.

Chase watched as she raided it, most likely searching for unhealthy snacks that were no longer allowed in the house. She came out with a package. "What the hell are these?"

"Rice cakes. She's going to need an outfit. Her current one is a little too informal."

"For a dinner party with close friends?" Gitana said.

"She's dressed like a Fascist," Chase said, referring to Graciela's Army and Navy store attire. "We'll hit Macy's."

"How about Old Navy? Let's try and keep this within the budget."

Chase watched Graciela munch rice cakes. "We'll have to be thrifty."

Graciela said, "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Aside from looking like a Fascist, we can't run the washer

right now because it keeps tripping the pump. The electrician gets here on Monday."

"Can I still have a shower?"

"Yes, the water heater works fine. But not a long one," Gitana added.

"I'll get her a nice dress shirt too. She can wear it to the baptism. I'm not having a Fascist show up in church," Chase said.

"Baptism?" Gitana said. "What if we don't want the baby to be Catholic?"

"Like your mother would allow for anything else. When Bud grows up, Bud can decide to be a Buddhist, a Methodist or a Quaker or any of the other saner denominations. You don't want your mother spraying the child with holy water every time we come to visit like she does to Graciela—the heathen. I mean as long as Bud doesn't get into mortification of the flesh, I'm cool."

"Who's Bud?" Graciela said.

"That's what Chase calls the baby. She got tired of the he/she thing."

Chase got them both another beer.

"Can we go sit on the deck?" Gitana said.

"Are you all right? Do I need to call the nurse hotline?"

"I'm fine. I just want to watch the sunset. It's so pretty this time of year."

"Sounds good to me," Graciela said, grabbing her beer and the package of rice cakes.

Chase noticed. "See, the rice cakes are good. They just take a little getting used to."

"No, they're disgusting, but I'm desperate."

"You've should've loaded up on prison food while you were there," Chase said.

"I don't eat corned beef hash."

Chase grabbed a stack of magazines—Martha Stewart's Living, Bon Appétit and Sunset Magazine.

"Going to do a little light reading?" Graciela said. Her phone gave a beep indicating she had a text message. She flipped it

open. "Shit, she's still pissed."

"I'm planning the menu."

Gitana sighed heavily.

"I'll keep it simple." Chase opened the French doors that led out onto the deck. The dogs got up from their dirt nap. She pulled two dog biscuits from her magic pockets—or at least the dogs thought of them as such, because biscuits always magically appeared from them. They gobbled them quickly and then went to explore some movement in the tree grove.

They all sat down in high-backed wooden chairs with matching green pillows, something Chase had seen in a magazine on deck life. She was very much into how things looked. The pink and orange of the sunset caught the wispy edges of the cirrus clouds. Chase always thought that the sky and the clouds were the canvas of the Creator who painted watercolor portraits for the delight of his/her beloved creatures. She contentedly flipped through her magazines, looking for ideas on how to decorate the table, which wine to serve and potential side dishes. She wanted everything to be perfect.

In the world of her mind, the weather would be good, the food even better, and everyone would be good-looking and smart. Everything would start like that until her muse—the dark, ironic comedian—got hold of the scene and everything fell to crap. She would devour Chase's beautiful imaginary world, spitting out great chunks of falsehood and making fun of the world's foibles and demonstrating how failure and dashed hopes were much more interesting than perfection.

Chase glanced over at Gitana who looked the picture of serenity as she gazed out on the mountains with the green of the scrub just starting to blossom—the yellow flowers of the rabbit bush and the wild purple asters bursting forth as if afraid of missing their arrival date.

Chase brought herself back to the task at hand. "So got any ideas for side dishes?" She hadn't found anything within her limited abilities in the magazines.

"Go to Costco and get those medallions..." Gitana said.

Chase interceded. "You mean those little round steaks with bacon wrapped around them." She wanted to be clear about this.

"Yes, they're filet mignons but very well priced. Then get two bags of fresh artichokes, a couple loaves of sourdough bread, a tub of spinach dip, a bag of fifty count shrimp with cocktail sauce and a bag of russet potatoes," Gitana instructed.

"Will you write this down?"

"I'll make a list."

"And I can buy all this at Costco?" Chase inquired, hoping she wasn't going to have to run all over town.

"Yes."

"Why do I subscribe to these magazines?" She smacked the cover of the Bon Appétit.

Graciela looked up from her continuing text argument and smirked.

"Because we all like to dream. We imagine the possibility and loathe the reality of doing it," Gitana said. She finished her orange juice and smiled patiently at Chase.

"That fucking bitch!" Graciela screamed at the phone while her fingers flew across the keyboard.

"We're going to have to talk to her about her language," Chase said, remembering that she'd said "fuck" seven times so far today.

Gitana nodded.

"Does everyone do this thing?" Chase jabbed a finger at the phone.

"Texting is very popular. I have to reprimand the crew at the greenhouse all the time. They're supposed to be working not texting their friends. I find them holed up in the oddest places—I caught Josh behind the manure pile one day. It was disgusting," Gitana said.

"Why don't they just call instead of texting? It seems like talking would be more expedient than all this finger flying."

Chase bent down and picked up the tennis ball Jane had rolled toward her. The dogs had returned from tormenting the rabbits.

She threw the ball and Jane went after it. Annie rested at Gitana's feet, her long pink tongue hanging out.

"I think it's a form of detachment," Gitana was saying. "Graciela is most likely texting things she wouldn't necessarily say if she was actually talking to Andrea."

"All right, that's it, we're through," Graciela said. She chugged her beer.

"You should train to be a court stenographer with fingers like that," Gitana said. She was always trying to counsel Graciela about finding some sort of lucrative career.

Graciela faked a yawn. "Boring." She looked over at Chase. "Want another beer?"

"Sure."

"How about more concentrated orange juice minus the polysorbate five?"

"Yes, please," Gitana said, handing her the glass.

Graciela had been a waitress along with other sundry jobs—a long list of low-paying, dead-end employment. Currently, she was detailing cars for rich women in the North East Heights. Graciela alluded to other things she did for these women. Chase imagined her seducing older women on the hoods of their Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs.

Graciela's phone beeped. She returned with the drinks.

"Your phone went off again," Chase said. She resumed her reclined position and sipped her beer, musing that life could be quite pleasant at times. The dogs lounged at her feet.

Graciela read her message. "I'm officially done. She doesn't trust me. She thinks I'm out playing around when I've been incarcerated. She says my jail story is all bunk."

"How long with this one?" Gitana asked.

"Three weeks."

"Oh, my God, a veritable eternity," Chase said.

"We'd planned on going to Pride together." Graciela almost looked mournful.

"So you even made long-term plans," Chase chided.

Graciela nodded. "I think I'm growing up. Are you two going?"

Gitana choked on her orange juice. Chase got up immediately to pat her on the back or provide artificial respiration if necessary.

"I'm fine really. It just went down the wrong tube."

Chase watched her keenly and then sat back down.

"Maybe I should hang with you guys," Graciela said. "A lot of lesbians think motherhood is hot."

"We never go to Pride," Gitana said. She gently pushed the dogs away. Any form of coughing, sneezing, crying or yelling brought out their nurturing natures.

"I think we should go," Chase said. "It's our culture and we should embrace it. Besides, there might be booths with literature about gay parenting or other mothers we could talk to."

"You hate people," Gitana said.

"I'm going to have to put my aversions aside for the sake of the child," Chase replied.

"I'm definitely going with you. I gotta see this."