Anything, Even This (part 2)
Continued from here.
A year passes. Hardly seems possible, but a year is passing all the time. Lyj and Janet write another opera. Esmee starts kindergarten. Lyj continues not to move out of the house. Smalley spends three long weekends with Carter and Rohin and becomes convinced that the convent is the best place for her, since she'll never have anything like that.
Oh, she doesn't mean to be maudlin, sappy, or otherwise unbearable. But Carter and Rohin are so flippin'...domestic; they're like Ward and - well, OK, Ward and Ward, but still. And she and Aimee broke up so brutally, not a 'We'll always be friends' drifting apart but a 'See you in Hell, bitch!' production number, complete with thrown crockery and half-completed 911 calls.
Smalley's never been the kind of woman who defines herself by her relationships, but with the rest of her life going so well (apart, of course, from the things that always lurk in the background, sucking - a gut-twisting silence from New Orleans, for instance), it's easy to fixate on the one glaringly wrong part.
And, ah yes, there's the fact that from time to time she'll get to thinking about Hollyhock Morris.
She's not obsessed. This isn't something the casual observer would notice. She doesn't zone out in the middle of exams or grand rounds, thank goodness. Hallmark commercials don't make her cry or anything like that. But sometimes she'll just...think of Hollyhock. She feels pissed at herself for a minute or two, and then she gets on with her day. No big deal.
Summer again. Summer and so humid you could steam broccoli in the heat mirages rising off the parking lots. Summer in North Carolina, and Smalley's wondering again why she didn't choose a residency in Alaska. Or Siberia. Summer, that endless molasses of sunstroke and dehydration and Tennessee Williams.
And fundraisers.
The AMA is not stupid. Promise them air-conditioning, and they will come. And they will bring their checkbooks.
Smalley stands in a dimly lit corner of the Chapel Hill Sheraton's Ballroom A and watches women struggle to hide their cringes as slips and skirts stick to pantyhose; bras and blouse to bare skin. She's the only woman in the joint wearing pants, and she can feel the envy radiating towards her.
Technically, she's not here alone. Nan is here somewhere, Nan, the sweet and hopelessly naive ENT who's been her best friend since med school, and supposedly they're here together. But Nan has always been the kind of woman who has to beat the men away with a stick, and she was last spotted congaing her way toward the Oak Room.
Just for giggles, Smalley wanders into the silent auction. Every year she attempts to donate a signed copy of the libretto of Lyj and Janet's first opera, The Sculpting of David, and every year the academy politely but firmly rebuffs her. She doesn't care enough to be offended.
The night out at Carlotta's is, as always, the most hotly contested prize. The dinner cooked by Harvey Wellman, the best gastroenterologist in town, and a serenade by the barbershop quartet comprised of Duke nephrology fellows, follows close behind. The golf lesson is doing well, and Smalley grins. Ty is an ex-boyfriend of Smalley's ex-roommate, and he's a genial guy who knows the best way to keep the docs happy is to smile beneficently and tell them their swings are perfect - however badly their swings suck. This year Smalley notes that the lesson has a companion - one women's golf lesson. Intended for the auxiliary, no doubt. Only one bid has been made, a mere five dollars over the minimum, by Sheila Randolph-Wood, a doyenne with way too much time on her hands. Last year she was a skydiver.
"You should put in a bid," says a soft voice behind her.
Smalley doesn't turn, but she smiles and fiddles with the pencil tied to the clipboard. "I really don't golf."
A quiet laugh. "I met Sheila Randolph-Wood. I doubt she does, either."
Smalley turns - and drops the clipboard. She dives to grab it and stares at the sheet again. "You're - holy shit. And you're - wow."
A raised eyebrow. "Can I help you?"
"Hollyhock Morris! You're giving this lesson? That's - fuck; this should be off the chart."
"Thank you." Hollyhock tilts her head. "So put in a bid."
"I told you; I don't golf." Oh, great. Way to miss your opening there, Smalley.
"It's for a good cause."
Well that's a line she's heard befo--Oh. She means the children. Gallantly, Smalley picks up the pencil and writes number more than twice Sheila's. Feeling brave because her back's to Hollyhock, she says, "We've met before, you know."
"I dropped my ball marker."
Smalley automatically starts looking around. "Where?"
Hollyhock laughs. "The first time."
"You remember?"
"You were the first person in...I don't remember how long...who called me 'Miss Morris,' rather than Hollyhock."
"I didn't know you. I hardly had the right to call you Hollyhock."
Hollyhock sighs. "That never seems to bother anyone else." She comes very close and looks at the sheet. "Wow. That's an amazing bid."
"It's for the children," she deadpans.
Nan bounds into the room. "Smalley! Lawrence Zeller is doing this thing with the - oh! Sorry. I didn't see you were--"
Smalley shakes her head. "It's OK. This is Nan Cavello, ENT. Nan, Hollyhock Morris, LPGA." Hollyhock smiles at the bad joke, but Nan's eyes don’t even flicker. "What's Larry doing?"
"He's - no, you have to see it for yourself."
Well, now she's torn. 'Cause she's got Hollyhock Morris here, but the chance to see Duke's chief of surgery doing something that has to be seen to be believed - She looks at Hollyhock. "Want to come? I don't know what he's doing, but I'm guessing it's hysterical."
Hollyhock shrugs. "Sure."
Alas, by the time they return to the Oak Room, Larry's stopped doing whatever he was doing, and the band's gone back to Lawrence Welk renditions of songs Smalley vaguely recalls she liked once. Nan gets swept up by a resident with a bad reputation, leaving Hollyhock and Smalley standing awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor.
"So...I thought you were from Texas."
Hollyhock nods. "I am. But I'm here, now."
"Oh. OK." Smalley rocks a little on her heels. What she really wants to do is ask Hollyhock to dance, but that's not her style. "Want to dance?" Or, OK, maybe it is her style.
Hollyhock's eyes widen, and then she smiles. "Why not?"
'Why not' is the disapproving glares of several dozen doctors and their wives, but Smalley discovers that she doesn't much care. She's just grateful that Grandmother Hasseltine felt dance lessons were important in her and Carter's developmental process.
"You're a good dancer," Hollyhock says.
Smalley beams at her. "Thanks. You, too."
Hollyhock looks over her shoulder at Nan and her shifty dance partner. "Is Nan your girlfriend?"
"Is--" Smalley blinks rapidly and bursts out laughing. "No way. She's an old friend, but unendingly straight."
"Are you single, then?"
"In very large ways. You?" Not that she particularly wants to know the answer to this question, if it's not 'yes,' but she should probably ask.
Hollyhock shrugs, throwing off the dance slightly. "There's a guy I'm always kind of seeing and always kind of breaking up with."
"A guy?" Smalley blurts. She blushes a furious shade of red.
"Yeah. This time." Hollyhock grins a bit wickedly. "Don't worry; you're not wasting your time on a straight girl here."
And because, once again, her brain seems to have detached from her mouth, Smalley replies, "Hollyhock, you could be totally asexual, and I wouldn't consider time with you wasted."
Hollyhock arches her eyebrow. "Asexual, huh? Now there's one I hadn't thought of. May have to try it sometime."
Smalley groans. "Damn it. Me and my big mouth - no wonder we never get laid."
"It's not the size of your mouth that matters; it's how you use it."
"Oh, I can use it just fine." They grin at each other.
"I'm Hollyhock now?"
"Well, I got you onto the dance floor; it seemed kind of silly to keep calling you 'Ms Morris.'"
"All part of your evil scheme. I get it." They dance in silence a moment, then Hollyhock asks, "What about you? You've got to have another name besides 'Smalley.'"
"I do, but if I tell you, people will end up dead, and you don't want that on your conscience."
The dance ends, and in time-honored lesbian overreactive fashion, Smalley and Hollyhock grip each other's hands as they slink off the floor, earning a few extra-testy scowls from the masses, but Smalley's blood is pounding too loudly in her ears to notice that.
Estelle Dimitri, queen of the auxiliary, comes into the room. "If you'd like to come into Ballroom C--" And, God, the woman has a voice like Ethel Merman, and everyone turns to listen-- "we're about to announce the winners in the silent auction." The crowd begins to migrate.
Hollyhock squeezes Smalley's hand once before letting it go. "I'm so excited," she says. "I hope you get the lesson."
Again, Smalley is torn, because a vision immediately springs into her mind of Hollyhock standing right up behind her, demonstrating the proper stance for getting out of the deep rough. But, Christ, an hour of golf. She smiles half-heartedly. "Don't get your hopes up. Sheila's a tenacious little hobbit; I'm sure she's put in another bid."
"She did." Nan appears suddenly at Smalley's elbow. Smalley jumps but has time to note that Nan now seems suction-cupped to the shady intern. "It was almost twice yours."
Smalley looks at Hollyhock and shrugs apologetically. "There you go."
"So I put in another one for you," Nan chirps. "Twice that! She'll never catch up."
Smalley stops dead in the middle of the Oak Room, causing several fine, upstanding, drunken members of the medical establishment to slam against her and mutter something that might've rhymed with 'pike.' "Thank you, Nan," she says in a strangled voice.
"Smalley?" Hollyhock is frowning at her in concern. "You OK?"
Smalley shakes herself and gives Hollyhock a lopsided smile. "Sure. Just super."
Back in Ballroom C, they sit impatiently through Estelle's presentation of a bunch of crap they don't give a fuck about. Hollyhock's arm is draped casually over the back of Smalley's chair, which Smalley would feel a lot better about if this didn't feel so damned much like the over-eager beginnings of every relationship that is now a heap of smoldering rubble behind her.
"And now," Estelle says, with considerably less enthusiasm than she's shown for anything else tonight, "we have the women's golf lesson at Willow Run, being given by...Hollyhock? Morris." She squints at the paper in her hand. "That can't be right." A few of the guests, die-hard golfers who might actually have heard of Hollyhock, crane their necks to see if she's here. Smalley can't prevent a smug grin when they spot the two of them together. "Anyway," Estelle continues, "The lucky winner is--" Sheila's fingers are crossed, but from the slight crinkle of distaste on Estelle's forehead, Smalley already knows the punch line to this joke. "--the Olivet Clinic's own Beatrice Smalley."
To the accompaniment of lukewarm applause and several whoops from Nan, Hollyhock, and the intern, Smalley walks to the podium, smiles broadly at Estelle, and gets a limp handshake and her gift certificate in return. Full of daring and stupid recklessness, she kisses Hollyhock lightly when she returns to her seat. Several people gasp; she's pretty sure one of them is Nan.
The presentation ends not long after, and Smalley hears the band, faintly, from the next room. "Another dance?" Hollyhock asks.
This is a slow dance. This is a very bad idea. "Love to," says Smalley.
So they dance this slow dance, far too close together, and Smalley can't dredge up even a mote of surprise when Hollyhock says casually, "Come home with me."
And even less when she answers, "Yes."
They sway a moment more, no longer dancing. "So," Hollyhock murmurs. "Beatrice."
Smalley's laugh is lower than normal. "No way, Hollyhock. No fucking way." Hollyhock smiles at her. "I need to tell you something, though." Hollyhock pulls back slightly so they look each other in the eye. "I hate - I mean really and truly despise - golf."
Hollyhock throws her head back and laughs at that, but when she recovers, there's a glint in her eyes that makes Smalley acutely aware of how long it's been since she's had sex. "That's OK," Hollyhock says. "I give lessons in other things, too."
On their way out of the ballroom, Smalley tears up her gift certificate and drops it in the trashcan.
FIN
A year passes. Hardly seems possible, but a year is passing all the time. Lyj and Janet write another opera. Esmee starts kindergarten. Lyj continues not to move out of the house. Smalley spends three long weekends with Carter and Rohin and becomes convinced that the convent is the best place for her, since she'll never have anything like that.
Oh, she doesn't mean to be maudlin, sappy, or otherwise unbearable. But Carter and Rohin are so flippin'...domestic; they're like Ward and - well, OK, Ward and Ward, but still. And she and Aimee broke up so brutally, not a 'We'll always be friends' drifting apart but a 'See you in Hell, bitch!' production number, complete with thrown crockery and half-completed 911 calls.
Smalley's never been the kind of woman who defines herself by her relationships, but with the rest of her life going so well (apart, of course, from the things that always lurk in the background, sucking - a gut-twisting silence from New Orleans, for instance), it's easy to fixate on the one glaringly wrong part.
And, ah yes, there's the fact that from time to time she'll get to thinking about Hollyhock Morris.
She's not obsessed. This isn't something the casual observer would notice. She doesn't zone out in the middle of exams or grand rounds, thank goodness. Hallmark commercials don't make her cry or anything like that. But sometimes she'll just...think of Hollyhock. She feels pissed at herself for a minute or two, and then she gets on with her day. No big deal.
Summer again. Summer and so humid you could steam broccoli in the heat mirages rising off the parking lots. Summer in North Carolina, and Smalley's wondering again why she didn't choose a residency in Alaska. Or Siberia. Summer, that endless molasses of sunstroke and dehydration and Tennessee Williams.
And fundraisers.
The AMA is not stupid. Promise them air-conditioning, and they will come. And they will bring their checkbooks.
Smalley stands in a dimly lit corner of the Chapel Hill Sheraton's Ballroom A and watches women struggle to hide their cringes as slips and skirts stick to pantyhose; bras and blouse to bare skin. She's the only woman in the joint wearing pants, and she can feel the envy radiating towards her.
Technically, she's not here alone. Nan is here somewhere, Nan, the sweet and hopelessly naive ENT who's been her best friend since med school, and supposedly they're here together. But Nan has always been the kind of woman who has to beat the men away with a stick, and she was last spotted congaing her way toward the Oak Room.
Just for giggles, Smalley wanders into the silent auction. Every year she attempts to donate a signed copy of the libretto of Lyj and Janet's first opera, The Sculpting of David, and every year the academy politely but firmly rebuffs her. She doesn't care enough to be offended.
The night out at Carlotta's is, as always, the most hotly contested prize. The dinner cooked by Harvey Wellman, the best gastroenterologist in town, and a serenade by the barbershop quartet comprised of Duke nephrology fellows, follows close behind. The golf lesson is doing well, and Smalley grins. Ty is an ex-boyfriend of Smalley's ex-roommate, and he's a genial guy who knows the best way to keep the docs happy is to smile beneficently and tell them their swings are perfect - however badly their swings suck. This year Smalley notes that the lesson has a companion - one women's golf lesson. Intended for the auxiliary, no doubt. Only one bid has been made, a mere five dollars over the minimum, by Sheila Randolph-Wood, a doyenne with way too much time on her hands. Last year she was a skydiver.
"You should put in a bid," says a soft voice behind her.
Smalley doesn't turn, but she smiles and fiddles with the pencil tied to the clipboard. "I really don't golf."
A quiet laugh. "I met Sheila Randolph-Wood. I doubt she does, either."
Smalley turns - and drops the clipboard. She dives to grab it and stares at the sheet again. "You're - holy shit. And you're - wow."
A raised eyebrow. "Can I help you?"
"Hollyhock Morris! You're giving this lesson? That's - fuck; this should be off the chart."
"Thank you." Hollyhock tilts her head. "So put in a bid."
"I told you; I don't golf." Oh, great. Way to miss your opening there, Smalley.
"It's for a good cause."
Well that's a line she's heard befo--Oh. She means the children. Gallantly, Smalley picks up the pencil and writes number more than twice Sheila's. Feeling brave because her back's to Hollyhock, she says, "We've met before, you know."
"I dropped my ball marker."
Smalley automatically starts looking around. "Where?"
Hollyhock laughs. "The first time."
"You remember?"
"You were the first person in...I don't remember how long...who called me 'Miss Morris,' rather than Hollyhock."
"I didn't know you. I hardly had the right to call you Hollyhock."
Hollyhock sighs. "That never seems to bother anyone else." She comes very close and looks at the sheet. "Wow. That's an amazing bid."
"It's for the children," she deadpans.
Nan bounds into the room. "Smalley! Lawrence Zeller is doing this thing with the - oh! Sorry. I didn't see you were--"
Smalley shakes her head. "It's OK. This is Nan Cavello, ENT. Nan, Hollyhock Morris, LPGA." Hollyhock smiles at the bad joke, but Nan's eyes don’t even flicker. "What's Larry doing?"
"He's - no, you have to see it for yourself."
Well, now she's torn. 'Cause she's got Hollyhock Morris here, but the chance to see Duke's chief of surgery doing something that has to be seen to be believed - She looks at Hollyhock. "Want to come? I don't know what he's doing, but I'm guessing it's hysterical."
Hollyhock shrugs. "Sure."
Alas, by the time they return to the Oak Room, Larry's stopped doing whatever he was doing, and the band's gone back to Lawrence Welk renditions of songs Smalley vaguely recalls she liked once. Nan gets swept up by a resident with a bad reputation, leaving Hollyhock and Smalley standing awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor.
"So...I thought you were from Texas."
Hollyhock nods. "I am. But I'm here, now."
"Oh. OK." Smalley rocks a little on her heels. What she really wants to do is ask Hollyhock to dance, but that's not her style. "Want to dance?" Or, OK, maybe it is her style.
Hollyhock's eyes widen, and then she smiles. "Why not?"
'Why not' is the disapproving glares of several dozen doctors and their wives, but Smalley discovers that she doesn't much care. She's just grateful that Grandmother Hasseltine felt dance lessons were important in her and Carter's developmental process.
"You're a good dancer," Hollyhock says.
Smalley beams at her. "Thanks. You, too."
Hollyhock looks over her shoulder at Nan and her shifty dance partner. "Is Nan your girlfriend?"
"Is--" Smalley blinks rapidly and bursts out laughing. "No way. She's an old friend, but unendingly straight."
"Are you single, then?"
"In very large ways. You?" Not that she particularly wants to know the answer to this question, if it's not 'yes,' but she should probably ask.
Hollyhock shrugs, throwing off the dance slightly. "There's a guy I'm always kind of seeing and always kind of breaking up with."
"A guy?" Smalley blurts. She blushes a furious shade of red.
"Yeah. This time." Hollyhock grins a bit wickedly. "Don't worry; you're not wasting your time on a straight girl here."
And because, once again, her brain seems to have detached from her mouth, Smalley replies, "Hollyhock, you could be totally asexual, and I wouldn't consider time with you wasted."
Hollyhock arches her eyebrow. "Asexual, huh? Now there's one I hadn't thought of. May have to try it sometime."
Smalley groans. "Damn it. Me and my big mouth - no wonder we never get laid."
"It's not the size of your mouth that matters; it's how you use it."
"Oh, I can use it just fine." They grin at each other.
"I'm Hollyhock now?"
"Well, I got you onto the dance floor; it seemed kind of silly to keep calling you 'Ms Morris.'"
"All part of your evil scheme. I get it." They dance in silence a moment, then Hollyhock asks, "What about you? You've got to have another name besides 'Smalley.'"
"I do, but if I tell you, people will end up dead, and you don't want that on your conscience."
The dance ends, and in time-honored lesbian overreactive fashion, Smalley and Hollyhock grip each other's hands as they slink off the floor, earning a few extra-testy scowls from the masses, but Smalley's blood is pounding too loudly in her ears to notice that.
Estelle Dimitri, queen of the auxiliary, comes into the room. "If you'd like to come into Ballroom C--" And, God, the woman has a voice like Ethel Merman, and everyone turns to listen-- "we're about to announce the winners in the silent auction." The crowd begins to migrate.
Hollyhock squeezes Smalley's hand once before letting it go. "I'm so excited," she says. "I hope you get the lesson."
Again, Smalley is torn, because a vision immediately springs into her mind of Hollyhock standing right up behind her, demonstrating the proper stance for getting out of the deep rough. But, Christ, an hour of golf. She smiles half-heartedly. "Don't get your hopes up. Sheila's a tenacious little hobbit; I'm sure she's put in another bid."
"She did." Nan appears suddenly at Smalley's elbow. Smalley jumps but has time to note that Nan now seems suction-cupped to the shady intern. "It was almost twice yours."
Smalley looks at Hollyhock and shrugs apologetically. "There you go."
"So I put in another one for you," Nan chirps. "Twice that! She'll never catch up."
Smalley stops dead in the middle of the Oak Room, causing several fine, upstanding, drunken members of the medical establishment to slam against her and mutter something that might've rhymed with 'pike.' "Thank you, Nan," she says in a strangled voice.
"Smalley?" Hollyhock is frowning at her in concern. "You OK?"
Smalley shakes herself and gives Hollyhock a lopsided smile. "Sure. Just super."
Back in Ballroom C, they sit impatiently through Estelle's presentation of a bunch of crap they don't give a fuck about. Hollyhock's arm is draped casually over the back of Smalley's chair, which Smalley would feel a lot better about if this didn't feel so damned much like the over-eager beginnings of every relationship that is now a heap of smoldering rubble behind her.
"And now," Estelle says, with considerably less enthusiasm than she's shown for anything else tonight, "we have the women's golf lesson at Willow Run, being given by...Hollyhock? Morris." She squints at the paper in her hand. "That can't be right." A few of the guests, die-hard golfers who might actually have heard of Hollyhock, crane their necks to see if she's here. Smalley can't prevent a smug grin when they spot the two of them together. "Anyway," Estelle continues, "The lucky winner is--" Sheila's fingers are crossed, but from the slight crinkle of distaste on Estelle's forehead, Smalley already knows the punch line to this joke. "--the Olivet Clinic's own Beatrice Smalley."
To the accompaniment of lukewarm applause and several whoops from Nan, Hollyhock, and the intern, Smalley walks to the podium, smiles broadly at Estelle, and gets a limp handshake and her gift certificate in return. Full of daring and stupid recklessness, she kisses Hollyhock lightly when she returns to her seat. Several people gasp; she's pretty sure one of them is Nan.
The presentation ends not long after, and Smalley hears the band, faintly, from the next room. "Another dance?" Hollyhock asks.
This is a slow dance. This is a very bad idea. "Love to," says Smalley.
So they dance this slow dance, far too close together, and Smalley can't dredge up even a mote of surprise when Hollyhock says casually, "Come home with me."
And even less when she answers, "Yes."
They sway a moment more, no longer dancing. "So," Hollyhock murmurs. "Beatrice."
Smalley's laugh is lower than normal. "No way, Hollyhock. No fucking way." Hollyhock smiles at her. "I need to tell you something, though." Hollyhock pulls back slightly so they look each other in the eye. "I hate - I mean really and truly despise - golf."
Hollyhock throws her head back and laughs at that, but when she recovers, there's a glint in her eyes that makes Smalley acutely aware of how long it's been since she's had sex. "That's OK," Hollyhock says. "I give lessons in other things, too."
On their way out of the ballroom, Smalley tears up her gift certificate and drops it in the trashcan.
FIN