More Than a Kiss

A Big, Fat, Gay Wedding

Ten minutes later, Amy was wearing a tie-dyed dress of Claire’s. She had so much patchouli splashed on that she smelled as though she’d just gotten back from a Grateful Dead concert. They both squeezed into the Smart car and Claire directed Amy to the posh side of town.

Amy chanced a question she had long wanted to know the answer to. “Did you love Daddy?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did he love you?”

“In his way,” Claire said. “Take the Columbia exit. The house is in the Kenton District. I think he was in love with the idea of being in love but whenever our love became deeper and required a fuller commitment, he flitted off like a humming bird at a feeder. Now turn right on Denver.”

Amy turned. She hoped she didn’t inherit her father’s genetics. The flitting part, anyway. She didn’t want to be a hummingbird. She wanted to be a penguin. They mated for life.

“You can park right here.”

Amy pulled over in front of an old yet beautifully restored Victorian house. Everything was perfect and very coordinated and looked like Martha Stewart lived here. Then it dawned on her. “Do gay men live here?”

“They do. It’s their wedding we’re doing the decorating for.”

“And they’re letting you?”

“Lillian is the decorator. I’m just her helper. C’mon, Lillian will be so happy to see you again.” Claire opened her door then froze, looking back at Amy. “You don’t have to come in. If you don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to,” Amy said.

Claire’s face lit up and Amy realized at that moment that she’d been steering clear of her mother for a long time and it was hurting her. She hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she had. She felt immensely guilty and resolved to spend more time with her mother from here on out.

Claire rang the doorbell that was shaped like a fleur de lis. It was brass and was polished recently, probably every day at ten sharp.

Meet Desmond Quartermaine. A perfectly turned out man with heavy brows and thick dark hair opened the door. In a voice that seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, he exclaimed, “Oh my God, Claire, you’ve got to help. It’s a disaster!”

“Desmond, this is my daughter, Amy. She’s a lesbian.”

If Desmond was shocked by Claire’s pronouncement he didn’t show it. He barely nodded at her before grabbing Claire’s arm, pulling her into the house and pleading, “It’s a disaster, Claire, you have to help.”

“Where’s Lillian?” Claire inquired.

“She’s in the pond.” He fanned himself with his hand.

“Why is she in the pond?” Claire asked as Desmond lead them through the most perfect house Amy had ever seen.

“Because of the frogs. That’s the disaster. It’s like one of the seven plagues on Egypt. Frogs everywhere!”

They followed Desmond through the house at such a brisk pace that Amy only glimpsed flashes of divans, ottomans, book shelves lined with leather-bound copies of books, gilded table lamps, tasseled pillows, and lots of gold brocade.

When they stepped out the back door and into the yard there was a gazebo, a myriad of benches strategically placed, perfectly manicured hedges, and several gazing balls. And in the thick of it all was Lillian, wearing hip waders and standing in the middle of the pond with a net in her hands.

Meet Lillian Drake. Lillian made perfect look easy. She called everyone darling and blew air kisses. Even in hip waders, her lipstick wasn’t smeared and her hair didn’t look messy; it looked windblown. She was overweight, but bore the weight like it was a privilege and something to be admired.

Claire and Lillian had been best friends since their sorority days. They were an odd match, but inseparable. What Amy found so interesting with Lillian was that she supported her mother in whatever endeavor she took on, no questions asked.

“Amy!” Lillian said, putting the net down and slogging across the yard. “Darling, how are you?” She wrapped Amy in a warm embrace and air kissed both her cheeks. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Come let me look at you.” She looked Amy up and down. “You look more like your mother every day.”

“Well, I am wearing her clothes,” Amy said, trying hard not to feel self-conscious.

“Amy is a lesbian now,” Claire said proudly like Amy had won the Nobel Prize.

Lillian’s eyes widened. “Really, dear? That is wunderbar.”

“Now about those frogs,” Desmond tittered.

“No worries, I think I’ve gotten rid of them and their soon-to-be offspring,” Lillian said.

“They were so disgusting,” Desmond said, flapping his hand in front of his face. “Nature is so…”

Claire filled in, “Natural?”

“Disgusting,” Desmond said.

Lillian whispered sotto voce to Amy, “It’s the green sludge he doesn’t like.” Lillian sat on a bench and began to tug off the hip waders. She was having difficulty getting them off. It was like trying to peel a sausage. Amy took a boot and pulled. “Thank you, darling.” Together they removed Lillian from the hip waders.

“Now, Desmond,” Lillian said, taking his arm. “Why don’t you make us some of that divine lemonade of yours and we’ll take a break and regroup afterwards. That way, we can all catch our breath.”

Desmond seemed delighted. “That’s a marvelous idea.” He lifted a small, discreet walkie-talkie to his mouth and commanded, “Bring a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses. Miss Lillian is parched from her frog killing spree.” He turned back to Lillian and said, “You are my savior. You are my Rambo of the pond. The Terminator of frogs. Whatever would I do without you?”

“You would manage, I am sure, darling,” Lillian said.

Desmond looked at his watch. “Oh no, the yo-yo’ers will be here soon.” He put his hand to his forehead in a very theatrical swoon. “I wish Evan didn’t have his heart set on the yo-yo’ers for entertainment. It’s so tasteless. The cabaret thing I wanted at least had class.”

“Desmond, we talked about this,” Lillian soothed.

“I know. I know. It’s his wedding too,” Desmond said, pouting. “It’s just so tawdry,” he muttered as he walked toward the house.

“And cabaret dancers are so high class,” Lillian muttered.

“So, this seems like a rather unusual wedding,” Amy said.

A young woman came out holding a silver tray with a cut-glass pitcher of fresh lemonade and five glasses. “Is this where the sane people gather?” she asked.

Meet Janice Cohen. Janice was very pretty under the military buzz cut and facial piercings. She even had a nice body, if you could find it under the extra large sweatshirt and baggy gray chinos. Her aura screamed feminist, but her lingering gaze at Amy whispered lesbian.

Lillian looked relieved. “Oh darling, thank goodness you’re here. He’s out of control again.”

Janice set the platter down. “I know. He’s hyperventilating all over the kitchen.”

“But, I got all the frogs and the green stuff. The pond looks fine,” Lillian said. “I mean it is a pond; it’s going to have pond stuff.”

“No, it’s not that,” Janice said, pouring lemonade all around. “Now, he’s fighting with Evan about the yo-yo’ers.” She handed Amy a glass of lemonade. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Janice. Desmond’s friend, but don’t hold that against me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners,” Lillian said. “This is Amy. She’s a lesbian.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Why haven’t I seen you out before?”

“Out?” Amy said.

“You know, in the clubs. Or events. Or potlucks,” Janice said.

“She’s a brand-new lesbian,” Claire said. “A late bloomer.”

“Fresh meat,” Janice said.

“Huh?” Amy said, alarmed. She nervously gulped her lemonade.

“Have you been initiated yet?”

Amy slowly shook her head and took another gulp.

Janice leered and wagged her eyebrows. “Maybe I can initiate you, then. It doesn’t hurt. Much. Well, it only hurts the first time. I need a new toaster oven anyway.”

What was this woman talking about? Amy was befuddled. Befuddled? Was that really a word? Or was it confuddled? She was confuddled and befused.

Janice took her arm. “Are you okay? You looked like you were going to faint. I was only kidding. Lesbian humor. It was a joke.”

“Oh,” Amy said and forced a fake-sounding chuckle.

“So who’s the girl?” Janice asked.

“Girl?”

“Yeah, what lucky woman rescued you from the bondage of heterosexuality?”

“Oh. Her name is Jordan March.”

“You’re dating Jordan March? The Jordan March?” Janice said.

Amy didn’t know exactly how to take this. Did she mean to imply Amy wasn’t good enough to date someone like Jordan March or that Jordan March was a bad person to date?

“Unless there’s another Jordan March,” Amy said, tentatively. She almost hoped there might be two of them and Amy got the good one, not the one this woman knew.

“She’s tall, gorgeous, talented, witty, and lives in that crazy house in the old part of town where all the mansions are?” Janice said.

Lillian and Claire were conspicuously silent. Amy knew they loved getting the info without having to be the ones to extract it. She could feel their eyes on her.

“Yep, that’s her.”

“How’d you manage that? She never dates anyone, especially after the Ice Queen episode.”

Lillian couldn’t help herself. “Ice Queen?”

“She was Jordan’s last girlfriend. Her name is Petronella and she’s a professor at the University and she’s a poet and she is the nastiest person I have ever met. She’s having some big poetry-reading thing at the New Little Theatre tonight. I’m going.”

“So am I,” Amy said. “I mean, Jordan and I are going.”

“Can straight people come, too?” Lillian asked.

“Sure,” Janice said.

Lillian poked Claire in the ribs with her elbow. “Let’s go crash the lesbian party. It sounds fun.”

“Oh, Petronella’s poetry isn’t fun,” Janice said. “It’s angry. You know how Rita Mae Brown’s cat, Sneaky Pie Brown, started writing mystery novels? Well, Petronella is now writing poetry with her vagina. She’s named it Vagina Woolf.”

Claire clapped her hands. “That sounds wonderful! Maybe I can get some ideas for my sculptures.”

Before Amy could object to her mother crashing her date, there was the sound of metal crashing against metal, and a high-pitched scream. The back door was thrown open and six muscular, oiled, naked men strutted into the back yard with their doodles dangling. They lined up in a chorus line, and began to yo-yo and kick step in perfect synchronization.

Claire and Lillian sat in rapt attention. Amy and Janice exchanged a confuddled look. “I think that’s my cue to leave,” Amy said.