Secret Love: A Love to Remember, #1

Chapter One: The Start of Something New

THURSDAY –

Carmen La Pierre worked as a cashier-night manager at the local 7-11 Sunoco station, usually called Jiffy’s, in Piney Knoll, North Carolina, a very pretty, isolated, rural farm town whose population could fit on the back of a watch. If small was beautiful, this town was a phenomenon of glamor. The Knoll was geographically located somewhere in the forests between Rocky Mount and the Atlantic Ocean.

Carmen thought, musingly, Glamorous it is not, unless you figure ferociously banged up jeans were notable chic – or men famous for the Piney Knoll grin (pants too low on the horizon with a bit of ass crack showing). Not her idea of fashion, or couth.

She was born and raised on a farm and aspired to big city couture, such as Versace-based pantsuit creations with a more modest neckline and no see-through materials, unless they were around the bottom hem. Or Ralph Lauren without the price tag. She could choose skinny jeans that still complimented her muscular, but slender figure. So, she wore theme t-shirts and regular Walmart blue jeans with no-brand sneakers. Way it is.

On payday, she put a few extra dollars from her meager salary into a New York City someday jar stashed in her bedroom closet. There was no more farm work for her (her parents were dead, her brother lived in Oregon and rarely visited). She treasured her precious vegetable garden and century old apple tree, but that was all. She didn’t have a goat, horse or cow. Her sixty pound Malinois-Shepard mix, Shep, took the place of all livestock with his big-ass personality.

New York City was her hope of freedom. The place where no one would care who she was, what she was or where she was from. She could be as gay as she wanted to. And that kind of anonymity was freedom to her – she wanted to be an unknown and longed for that with her whole heart.

Carmen’s dreams kept her heart alive during the long, soul-killing hours she worked behind Jiffy’s counter selling Slim Jims, slices of pizza, startling cups of black coffee, cans of Spaghettios, junk food, bread, milk, liquor and cigarettes. The times she treasured most were the late-night hours before the store closed at 1 am. There were few customers after eleven and she could play her boom box and any CD or radio station she wished at a decent volume. She would dance alone to the music of her dreams in the small hours of the morning among the chips, refrigerated cases and cans of Dinty Moore.

She loved the pretty, dark shadows of the trees silhouetted against the hazy mist of the North Carolina moonlight. This was in her possession every day at dusk, despite the garish atmosphere of the Seven-Eleven. These late hours were one of the few times she loved her job. She could breathe free. The weather today was benign and succulent at moon-rise after a too-hot day.

SHE HAD WANTED TO BECOME a Social Worker and do something meaningful to help others, but there was barely enough money to buy food when she was a child. So, college was out of the question. In her day, there were no scholarships for the children of North Carolina’s dirt farmers. No matter how well they did in high school, their good grades and skills generally got them a decent office position, but not much more.

She was born too early in the century to have the advantages of today’s youth. Although nearing fifty, she looked fresh and at least a decade or two younger. She was careful to take care of her health, loved to fish and had a diet that included freshly caught fish on a weekly basis when possible. She had never been interested in the local bar scene, regardless of how many men wanted to go out with her. Alcohol upset her peptic ulcer – a vicious award from her alcoholic mother bestowed inside her driving arguments initiated at breakfast, lunch and dinner.

SHE WOULD RUN TO A vegetarian diet about once a month to quell her painful stomach. Her ulcer had been further intensified by both alcoholic parents and the too-early responsibility of rearing a younger sibling by herself without enough money. Or, any money at all.

She often gave her food to her little brother, Zachary, with nothing left for herself to eat. This caused her stomach lining to irritate itself even further. Trying to take care of her kid brother had caused chronic fears – she had always been afraid that both of them might have to sleep outside because of the violence.

Even as a child, she took care of her stomach like it was a pet. Something that she had to attend to but was like an object to be dusted on a shelf. She hated the thing but accepted the responsibility of knowing that it could erupt like Vesuvius and needed to be placated with offerings of antacids and yogurt.

In terms of Zach, she was afraid of becoming homeless as a child and having to hide her little brother in order to keep the two of them together. Or worse, losing him to Children’s Services. Or, both of them being taken into state custody. She had always loved Zachary and used to joke (while he disagreed) that, He was better than a puppy, as she rubbed his curly brown head in affection.

THEN THERE WAS HER life as a single lesbian. She knew she was attractive to men. She thought, ruefully, about how many good-looking, amiable young farmers had a crush on her. As a result, she had always refused to wear dresses unless she was at home alone and it was too hot to do anything else comfortably. She liked the swish of cooler air up the skirt as long as no one was lusting after her. She knew she looked good in fitted cotton sundresses with small, fitted waists and full skirts. Even at her age, her waistline was small. The same size she was at sixteen.

Too bad for the guys. She never felt comfortable as their eyes started to wander up her shapely bare legs to her knees. Even if their eyes did not move, she felt something that was not to her liking.

Instead, she enjoyed the companionship some of her older female neighbors – most of whom had already lost their husbands, either to alcoholism, divorce (oh, yes – even Christians and weekly church-goers did that), or the grave. Their children had moved away from the economic disaster of Piney Knoll. These neighbors usually had her back. None of them knew she was a lesbian. She was so used to their friendship, she thought they might not even blink at it. The ladies might have already figured something was up as they would have noticed that she never seemed to have a man around, outside of her gay-boy cousin, Billy Ferguson. Billy was well-known around the town as a gay-boy cowboy and her housemate.

Some of the friendly, innocuous townsmen (there were a few) helped her out with their building, repair skills and mechanical equipment from time-to-time. All of them formed a gentle, caring community that made Carmen feel wanted, if not entirely fulfilled.

She didn’t really feel these neighborhood women were her community, even though she had known almost all of them since childhood. See, no one ever moved away from Piney Knoll unless they were young or running from the law. They were rooted in the soil, it seemed, like oaks or maple trees – unable to lift themselves away from even the front yard.

Like her, but not like her.

Carmen had never married and had no children. Her cousins and extended family were distant and out of state. When she was a teenager, one did not have children without marriage. To her young, straight, naïve mind it had to be a good, true marriage – otherwise, why do it at all? Pregnancy could be treacherous. There were no legal or even safe illegal abortions. So, she had simply chosen not to do anything that could make her pregnant. All that right at puberty. Fifteen. She had found the word lesbian in the dictionary and decided, then and there, that was what she was. She had been attracted to female bodies from an early age.

Girls disappeared from her high school – no one knew where they had gone to. Some never came back. The whispers were that they had gotten pregnant. And, that explanation was enough. They were dead, raising a baby – or too psychologically damaged from a street or other illegal abortion and hurt over their irresponsible, lost first love to return to the same school. That serious.

She had never really been a church-goer or believer, but she vaguely believed that her good ancestors probably formed a sort of God-Consortium and watched over her – so her lack of interest in hetero-sex was purely a practical, life-conserving belief.

She had liked some of the local boys at Piney Knoll High but knew if she got too close or went sneaking beer or cigarettes with them – those soft places in the woods could be her downfall. At that time, her natural lust was excited by both girls and boys.

So, she simply milked the family cows, groomed the horses, fixed whatever machinery she could and generally helped out around the house, giving her mother a break. She made herself happy by being busy. As a result, she and her mother were close and more like friends than relatives. At least, when she was sober.

At night, she would read. She read everything she could get her hands on. Her books were a parade from youth through high school. She read what young folks would call vintage books.

She began her childhood reading adventures with the usual baby books of the day, then progressed to Nancy Drew and an occasional Reader’s Digest. The reading lists at Piney Knoll High School in the Sixties was a combination of Charles Dickens, e.e. cummings, Longfellow, Whitman and, of course, Shakespeare. Then came Carmen’s colorful additions of Alice B. Toklas, Edgar Allen Poe and Mad Magazine. Mad was psychologically healing for her and Poe rocked. Whatever...

She also watched late night rerun black and white movies on her family’s sacred old, second-hand television when she didn’t have a night job. She found that soothing after a difficult, strenuous day on the farm and her parents’ arguments.

After her literary lesbian experience, she became entranced by Brigette Bardot, Marilyn Monroe (who she felt was one of the legendary, finest American actresses) and other favorites such as early Elizabeth Taylor and Sophia Loren. All these actresses were soft-spoken. She liked that. When she couldn’t find a good re-run, she read. She lived in her novels. They blossomed like wildflowers inside of her. They painted her dreaming Self with colors that had before been unknown to her. Maybe her dream girl would be like this, too. She had high school crushes on girls that came to nothing much.

The local librarians knew her well. The library building was built for dreaming. It was cool, clean and old. She loved the clean antique smell of the polished floors and smooth wood tables. She loved it like a second home. Here were no loud, drunken arguments. This was a home for her soul. She loved the magazines that showed her a life that was a million miles away from the dusty back roads of Piney Knoll and even North Carolina, even if her phantom arms would never reach those fantastic places.

Despite Carmen’s dreams of life in the big city, she had a kind of love for her hometown and the people she knew. There was no hatred in her. She only hated drudgery and bigotry. Her shoulders shook as she shivered – thinking of how much of that had embedded itself in her life and in this town, threatening to exhaust her spiritual existence.

This afternoon, she had watered all her plants, inside and outside, and fed Shep. She hurried, shook herself out of her daydreams with no idea why she was thinking about high school, got dressed in an oversized, loose plaid flannel shirt and new blue jeans. She slung her day pack over her shoulder. She had, as usual, packed her dinner along with her most current book (re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird for the third time), thinking, hopelessly, Why, oh, why didn’t Harper Lee write anything else? She had read the original to Mockingbird which was Go Set a Watchman and liked comparing the two books, but that was it for this author. What a frustration! Harper was a lesbian lawyer (and childhood friends with Truman Capote, another southern gay) practicing down South before de-segregation, she must have had something else to say.

Today, she had packed a few magazines from the library, too. She let Shep out in the fenced-in backyard, as usual. He leaped up to kiss her good bye, giving her a doggie hug. She left him, thinking, Love that dog. Mmm...that kiss, that kiss. If that had been any dog other than Shep, kissing would have been disgusting. But she cleaned and groomed her dog, giving him special foods, no sugars or corn syrup treats, raw vegetables and fruit. So, he was her smelly jelly belly. You know, special buddy, that kind of thing. So, sloppy kisses were okay on a limited basis.

Shep, whose full name was Shepard, was her guardian and her home security system. He was a large rescued mutt, which made him friendly, but not too friendly. He had attractive deep brown, tan and white markings with a matching proportionate mask around his dark brown eyes.

He was smart, naturally obedient and a great companion who learned quickly and was overtly affectionate. Only about a year old or so, he was still a little bit puppyish and floppy. Carmen and Shep actually did love each other, you could see it in the dog’s careful obedience. Shep would never let Carmen be harmed, he was very protective of her, but would stop fighting (say, with another dog) on command without stress or pressure – people were amazed at that and some of the other things Shepard could do.

She watched him as he walked outside the open sliding glass doors in the kitchen to his dog house in the garden and curled up. Back to sleep with him, lazy thing! thought Carmen with a laugh. It was easy to leave the dog outside in her fenced-in yard when she was at work. She knew he loved the sun and had water under the porch – which also provided an extra cool spot.

Her old, dinged-up, red, rust bucket of a Ford pickup thankfully started with a cacophony of loud clunking noises and belches that sounded like a bad accident between recycled cans and an obese drunk with gas. Must be that damn loose bumper, she thought, turning the radio up louder so she wouldn’t hear her truck self-destruct.

She took off in a rush and dashed down the dirt road in front of her house that lead to the highway into town. Her house was the same one she had grown up in, with a white picket fence in the front and several flower beds and gardens she cared for meticulously with fervent dedication. The house was newly painted lime green, with darker forest-green accents. She had painted it all by herself over a period of several months – Billy had declined to help, except for esthetic criticism.

She admired her work and her home for a fleeting moment as she left her poetic mind behind and hoped, as usual, that her front fender would not fall off on the way to work. She turned the radio up, even more loudly, to her favorite Country & Western station. Vintage Loretta Lynn and Porter Wagoner were playing in a special program. Carmen loved both singers. She lit a joint and sang along.

She had inherited the house from her parents. Her brother, Zachary, didn’t want it and gave it up willingly. He didn’t need the house. He was a long-haul trucker and made good money driving up and down the west coast, dispatched from his home in Grant’s Pass. She and Zach had never fought over anything. He had not hassled her over wanting the place, for which she was grateful.

He was completely unaware of Carmen’s private life, but she was sure he could accept mostly everything without any fuss. He had two small children, a boy, seven – and a girl, four and very precocious. She hadn’t met either child, but they got together over Skype. She had started out by collecting their photos on Facebook. The girl looked like her twin, the boy like Zach. It felt good to have at least some close relatives – Zachary and his brood were the best choices. He didn’t drink like their father (their dad drank hard liquor to excess and spent most of his wages on it.) Zachary drank too much socially – but not as much. And, he had a very sanguine, benign temperament, even when drunk.

His wife, Joyce, was pretty and kind. She had met her when they married. They liked each other. She knew Joyce wouldn’t mind if she was gay. Or, so she imagined, having no guts in this regard. She liked the entire family, her niece and nephew, but prized her solitude too much to miss them, overall. So, they kept in touch over social media. Such is life in the closet. Gets stuffy, but it is so much safer.

On time! She thought with a sigh of good portent as she saw the last mile to Jiffy’s come into view. She looked at her watch as if it was a page from Leviticus giving her hope. On time, she thought again with smacking satisfaction. Punctuality was a well-known characteristic of Carmen’s personality. She had nicknames from childhood based on that. Some cartoon character, or the other. She couldn’t even remember. Oh, shit, yeah, she did, she remembered painfully... It was the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. She remembered now. The song rang in her head:

I’m late!

I’m late!

For a very important date!

No time to say Hello, goodbye!

I’m late!

I’m late!

I’m late!

I run and then I hop hop hop

I wish that I could fly

There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s the reason why

You see I’m overdue

I’m in a rabbit stew

Can’t even say Good-bye, Hello,

I’m late, I’m late, I’m late...

[I’m Late, written by: Bob Hillard, Sammy Fain, Oliver Wallace, Ted Sears, Mack David and Al Ho, from the soundtrack of Alice in Wonderland Sung by the White Rabbit.]

She was able to use that reputation in a creative way, but she hated it. Ah, there it was! Hatred. The insistent pursuit of time. Plant on time, clean on time, harvest on time – milk the cows – on time! She had forced her mother and Zachary to stop calling her that name. Rabbit! How she hated that! She might love wild rabbits, especially the babies, but she felt stronger than all that. She felt she had the right to self-description.

Always trying to keep up with something – that was farming – repairs, planting, animal births – when was there that delicious space that opened like a succulent spring day and said, with wide open arms, beckoning, Rest here – live. Now, here is all you dream of. Live! Take time for yourself!

This thought made Carmen shove her right foot too hard on the accelerator of her twenty- year-old Ford, way too hard for the engine. She switched the truck radio off so hard, the knob fell off. She swore out loud, Angry. She glanced at the speedometer, "Je—sus!" she was hitting 75 ... then 80!

Anxiously looking over her shoulder and at her smudged rear-view mirror which dangled almost uselessly slightly off the rotating ball it used to cling to. No cops in sight. Everyone was eating dinner, changing shifts, setting the table. She was lucky this time, couldn’t afford a ticket on her pay.

She got off the highway and raced down Magnolia Avenue, pulling into Jiffy’s, parking in the employee space reserved for her. Still had about ten minutes before she had to clock in at five. 5 pm to 1 am were her work hours. She had worked this shift for almost ten years – since she was around forty. Her impoverished truck did not stop running when she turned the key off. It chugged for about thirty seconds with a very bumpy racket that shook the old McDonalds’ wrappers off the front seat onto their nest on the floor.

Carmen sighed. One day, she thought.

After the other cashier cashed out and Carmen got her bank and settled down for her shift, one of her elderly neighbors walked in and got a gallon of milk, eggs and a loaf of