by Irene Fetherston
A bright line of yellow white light stretches itself out above the Sierra Nevada mountains, east of Sacramento, thrumming a rhythm of September shine between long tree shadows that extend across the park green. Jordan walks along the path in the trees and stops just outside a stand of cottonwoods. His short gray hair still shows hints of the darker color of his youth. The light softens in his chocolate-cinnamon eyes, and their habitual melancholy subsides, sparking now with focus on something across the grass. A scurry of leaves softly clatter in the breeze. From the other end of the park, a tall woman whirls a red frisbee across the meadow, her whole body moving smoothly without apparent effort. A tan and white hound with a short, curled tail and floppy ears tears out like a fighter jet over the grass toward the disc. Jordan’s attention is caught in suspended time, a dimension where the quickening of his breath escapes his notice.
Jake, a Basenji-English hound mix, races and jumps to catch the disc, then accelerates through a long arc to turn back toward his dog mom. Clara moves fluidly and nimbly, watching Jake, encouraging him with happy words and gestures. Jordan thinks she might be near his own age, as he watches, attentive to her graceful movement. His focus softens into a warm curiosity with a shy smile. Clara’s face is pleasing, with the sort of gentle-rugged look that gives the impression she can’t possibly know how stunning she is. From the distance, Jordan can see her salt-and-pepper hair, curly on top, tucked behind her ears with small waves reaching into the back of her neck. He’s motionless, staring across the field at the woman and her dog.
Clara has the frisbee in her hand again and she zings it across the field. Jake catches it in his teeth but then continues, not back in Clara’s direction, but forward directly toward Jordan, whose eyes widen, pupils dilating. He’d felt invisible up to then, as though watching a vivid dream on a theater screen. Now his senses are at once awake and alert. Is this dog about to attack him? Clara, running toward them, calls out, “Jake! Jake, sit!” Jake slows and sits in front of Jordan, offers him the red disc. Jordan accepts. Clara appears next to Jake. “I’m sorry!” she huffs. After another inhale-exhale, “He never does this sort of thing!” Jordan is still staring, now at Clara’s eyes, a rich golden brown. “Clara.” She breathes, “… and this is Jake – such a naughty boy!” Her voice is like dark chocolate and caramel, with a pinch of green chile. Clara rubs Jake’s head affectionately. Jordan’s mouth feels dry, but he manages, “Jordan. Elliott. Jordan Elliott – nice to meet you,” sending out a hand to shake.
“Clara Arbas.” The two hands grasp and shake. A gentle aroma of birchwood – or is it cedar? – and a hint of cherry drifts into Jordan’s consciousness. Jake’s big brown eyes are watching Jordan’s face, his little tail wiggling erratically, his whole back half waggling. “Sorry again, I hope he didn’t scare you,” says Clara. She clips a leash onto Jake’s collar. “He’s really gentle – but very enthusiastic! And just so you know, I normally obey the leash laws, but now and then I let him run when nobody’s around.” Clara’s guilty little smile loosens one of the bolts that had been securing Jordan’s heart.
“No, it’s ok, he’s delightful!” Jordan crouches down to scratch Jake behind the ears, “Hi, Jake! You’re very sweet, such a good boy…” Jake leans into it, licks Jordan’s hand excitedly, turns his damp jowls up to Jordan’s face. He lands one wet kiss across a cheek before Jordan falls backward onto his butt, laughing.
Clara chortles, “Sorry about that! Here.” Clara takes Jordan’s hand and pulls him up off the path, says “Um… do you… walk here a lot?”
“Thanks. Pretty often. A few times a week. I really felt like a walk this morning, needed to get out.” Jordan is still holding the frisbee, hands it to Clara. Clara smiles, looks into Jordan’s almond-shaped brown eyes. “Thanks,” says Clara. The two look at each other for a beat. Clara is the one to blink first, glancing down at Jake. Jake looks back, gives a twitch of his tail.
“I’d better get Jake home; it was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” The eyes come back to Jordan’s face, then dart away, and her cheeks look a little pink.
Jordan stammers, “Ok… yeah… take care!”
Jake and Clara are walking back toward the other end of the park. Jordan isn’t moving, just watching the two figures becoming smaller in the distance. “Take care?” Ugh. Why not, “Hey, want to get a cup of coffee?” Then again, she’s probably married. Or has a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or enbyfriend? But how will I know unless I ask? And maybe we can be friends, anyway. Friends are good. Everyone could do well with more friends. …Is that my heart racing? Shit, I’m too old for this. 62 for cryssakes.
On the next day, Jordan walks to the park again. And the following day, and again for 3 more days. Clara and Jake don’t appear. Why am I like this? What am I even going to say if I see her? I’m perfectly happy by myself. Definitely. I don’t have the time or energy for dating. Right?
#
As it happens, Clara and Jake had been to the park on those very same days, at first a little later than Jordan, then a little earlier. They missed Jordan by a handful of minutes each time. But it would have been unthinkable to sit and wait on the park bench just on the chance that Jordan would appear. You don’t want to seem desperate, my dear. Clara had limited time this week – had to walk Jake, then get home to make reeds and practice for her job as Principal Oboe in the Sacramento Symphony. Brahms’ First is in next week’s series, with its big solo in the Andante Sostenuto. She knows it backward, forward, and upside down, but still pushes herself to make everything just right. Practice does not make perfect, as everyone says, but instead makes automatic habits consistent, based on the intention and focus while practicing. There’s no such thing as perfect. That’s the essence of beauty.
As Clara walks home from the park on the fourth day, memories of ninth grade come swimming back to her. 1978. Jimmy Carter is the US President. Harriet Tubman’s image appears on a postage stamp. Kitchen appliances: Avocado Green or Harvest Gold. Television: M*A*S*H, Laverne and Shirley. Unleaded gas was new on the market, at 68 cents a gallon.
It was dinner time and the loving; dependable October sun was halfway to the horizon over the football field at Santa Fe High School. The Demons’ marching band, in their street clothes, moseyed off the field after rehearsal. A few of the kids chattered quietly as the ensemble flowed toward the music building with their instruments. In high school, Clara’s given name was Timothy. More so than even the majority of teenagers, Timothy was not yet fully awake to who he really was. There had been clues, but the individual breadcrumbs could each be explained away, so that the complete pattern did not yet reveal itself in the sunlight. Timothy had wavy brown hair with a little extra on top, which he attempted to feather to the sides, as was the fashion in the 70’s. Timothy and his trumpet walked next to Samantha across the field. Timothy snuck a look at her. She had long straight caramel colored hair up in a ponytail, and the brightest, sharpest blue eyes he’s ever seen. Samantha had subtle freckles on her cheeks and nose, and Timothy was glad she didn’t cover them with makeup, though she did use a little mascara and eyeliner. Timothy liked Samantha’s looks, the way she played the flute – with spirit, but not show-offy – and how she knew so much about Southern writers like Faulkner and Welty, and how she loved Sylvia Plath.
Timothy desperately searched for something to say, but the only words that came to his mind were things like, “You’re so pretty, I can’t even remember my own name,” but he knew he’d die of embarrassment if he said that out loud, and wouldn’t have known how to follow it up with conversation anyway. All he could do was glance over at her and blush.
Samantha looked at Timothy and smiled. She had full, sensual lips, and Timothy imagined kissing them. He swallowed, tried to smile back, and almost achieved it before she looked back toward the music building. Just ask her out! What? No – what if she makes a face and says no – or worse! What if she looks at me pityingly and says, “I’m really flattered.” Which actually means “I’m dreadfully embarrassed for you that you’d think I’d EVER go out with you.” Oh my god, I’m such a pathetic dork.
#
Whenever fresh romantic feelings breeze their way into his life, Jordan’s mind likes to replay the slide show of all the most embarrassing moments of his life. He’s sitting at a coffee shop table, staring blankly out the window, when his internal projector clicks the first slide into place.
The scene opens with a close-up of Amanda Burnett, after he had finally gathered up enough courage to ask her to the 7th grade school dance. Amanda played the viola, and had long, straight copper brown hair down to the middle of her back, cut in the shape of a wide “V.” She wrinkled her nose and said, “no, thanks.” He’d had a paralyzing crush on her, couldn’t stop thinking about her, looking over at her every chance he had, finally conjured up the courage to talk to her – now he felt like some kind of dirty insect larva.
The projector in his brain clicks and brings him back to 4th grade, when he was utterly smitten with Janet Bauer – her big brown eyes, long straight brown hair with a flip at the ends, just like Marlo Thomas in “That Girl.” The teacher had asked Jordan and another student to return graded quizzes to their classmates. Jordan held in his hands a stack of the purple-printed dittos, that distinctive “ditto fluid” solvent smell having started to fade only a few hours ago, and he was handing them back to the other students. He came down to Janet’s paper, when a moment of passionate insanity commandeered his entire 9-year-old nervous system, causing him – surreptitiously, he thought – to deposit a wad of spit on Janet’s quiz before placing it on her desk. Oh, my freaking god why did I do that – did I actually think she would come up to me and kiss me, or something, after that? Why am I like this?
From his table at the coffee shop, Jordan barely hears the reactions, which included a muffled “Ew, gross,” before the next slide in the brain projector fades into view.
Click. Back one year, to third grade, John Chavez. John was a wiry but substantial boy of 8 or 9, with light brown skin, thick dark brown hair and active, intelligent dark brown eyes. He had a stunning smile that could power the whole south wing of the school – that was the effect it had on Jordan. All during three weeks in September, they looked for each other on the playground at recess. They didn’t run and play, they just sat on the grass and talked. One day they both felt compelled to hug each other but once when they did, a group of three fifth-grade boys was watching from several yards away. One shouted: “HAHAHA, look at those two faggots! Hey John, do you love your boyfriend?” In the days that followed, even after the two actively avoided hugging, somehow the other boys caught on to the attraction between Jordan and John. The teasing didn’t stop. A few days later, “What a couple of fillies! Let’s trounce ‘em!” Calling someone a “filly” was about the worst thing you could say, at least during that one year at Jackson Park Elementary. Miraculously, there was no actual physical violence, possibly because John and Jordan refused to show their fear. They were already tuned in to that paragraph of the Male Code. But the damage had a lasting effect. Within a few weeks, John eventually succumbed to the pressure, suddenly denying his feelings and calling Jordan by one or the other f-word, either the traditional “faggot” or the pejorative du jour, “filly.” Jordan felt small and ashamed, and bewildered. What if I really am what they’re saying?
#
The musicians of the Santa Fe High marching band were back inside the music room, where sousaphones and bass drums were being stowed in a corner or crammed into large cabinets; smaller instruments packed into cases, then put away in cubby shelves. Samantha was already stepping out the door as Timothy slides the school-owned trumpet case into cubby number 17.
Then Timothy’s best friend Chris was by his side, as they walked through the corridor. Chris said, “Samantha is such a fox, don’t you think?”
“Yeah…” said Timothy, “I kinda have a crush on her. Like majorly.”
They strode toward the front entrance of the school, with its high-pillared patio roof, and iconic blond and tan bricks punctuated with a grid of glass blocks.
“Why don’t you ask her out?” asked Chris.
“I dunno. I get all nervous and flustered. She probably won’t want to anyway – I bet she’s into big jocks like Mike Turner.”
Timothy’s mom, Jill Hansen-Arbas, picked the boys up at the school driveway. With her hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, and dark blond hair up in a French braid, Jill greeted them as they climbed into the light blue Chevy Nova with, “How was band? Buckle your seatbelts, ok?” She normally waited for an answer to the first question, but this time she was preoccupied. Tim and Chris buckled up and remained quiet, looking out of opposite windows from the back seat.
.
The next day was only the third day of the semester, and Timothy was scheduled for Spanish, Physics, and Geography. Physics was right before lunch, and Timothy brought with him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple in a brown paper sack. When he arrived at the Physics classroom just before the bell, there was just one seat left. The classroom was set up as a science lab, with large, black-topped workbenches, blonde wood drawers and cabinets, and grey metal stools to sit on. Timothy approached the empty stool, and to his right sat a boy with chin-length wavy black hair, coffee brown eyes, and a striking face – subtly refined, masculine, and so lovely. Timothy felt his skin twanging above his sternum and just below his belly button, as if there were a cake mixer beating somewhere in his torso. The face turned toward him, a hand was extended, and he heard, “I’m Steve.”
“I’m Tim.” They shook hands. Timothy’s cheeks felt warm, and he was still tingling. He was at a loss as to how, less than twenty-four hours before, he’d been on the verge of… well, not asking out, but at least speaking to Samantha, a girl he’d been perseverating about all summer – and yet, there in the Physics lab, his whole body seemed to be vibrating in the presence of this irresistible Steve. Timothy saw that Steve used a mechanical pencil, the kind with little skinny green erasers underneath a metal cap. He noticed that Steve’s writing was small and beautifully neat. In a soft case hanging from his leather belt, Steve had an HP 29C calculator with Reverse Polish Notation, just like his own.
“Timothy Arbas,” said Mr. Black, the Physics teacher. He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt with a white plastic pocket protector, and black plastic horn-rimmed glasses, black slacks, and a skinny black tie with a horizontal silver clip holding it in place. He seemed to wear the science teacher stereotype like a uniform, but without the white lab coat. “Timothy Arbas!” repeated Mr. Black.
“Here!” said Timothy.
At last, Samantha no longer dominated the forefront of Timothy’s heart and mind, though he hadn’t forgotten those feelings. Far from it. Life had just become geometrically more complicated. If he had trouble finding courage to ask out a girl, how was he possibly going to approach a boy, who, statistically speaking, was unlikely to be anything but straight? But Steve was so boy-pretty, and smart, and kind.
Timothy and Steve sat together for the remainder of the term, and it was a long semester of confusing desires and hormones, and of not speaking of it to anyone, especially not to his best friend, Chris, and much less to Steve himself.
#
By that time in the late 1970’s, the word “gay” was in the common usage as an acceptable synonym for homosexuality. It wasn’t yet misused as a direct insult, other words being preferred for greater impact, but the nearly universal belief that there is only “straight” and “gay” was still strong. Fashionable young men could wear an earring in one ear: “right is Gay, left’s Okay.” It was one or the other, a binary concept: Gay, or Okay. The research reported in 1948 by Alfred Kinsey, et al., showing that there are many gradations between Straight and Gay, was apparently still buried in higher academia, not yet filtered down to the high school sphere of knowledge. The concept of “the closet” was beginning to elbow its way into wider collective usage, and the vast majority of queer people were still soundly fixed in place behind that door. Those not inside were usually out by circumstance rather than by choice, and their lives were almost always miserably difficult because of it.
The word “bisexual” did not yet exist for Timothy, or Jordan. The differences between birth sex, gender, and sexuality that are generally accepted today were only beginning to germinate in the minds of sociologists, psychologists, and philosophers. Questions of gender diversity were heavily weighted toward the binary concept, and the subject was not yet diffused into collective consciousness. Nearly everyone knew that people called “transexuals” existed, but they were alien, “other.” Maybe a friend of a friend knew one who lived in a neighboring town. On the rare occasion when they were represented on television, it was either for a lurid, cruel joke, or a nidus of tragedy.
#
All Timothy knew was that he liked Steve – a lot – and he liked Samantha – a lot. The feelings for each were a little different, though they both activated his sympathetic nervous system with quickened pulse and respiration, and jangled nerves. They both triggered secretion of hormones. His neck and cheeks would feel hot, sometimes accompanied by a tightening in other areas that would later become more familiar to him.
Timothy would never tell Chris about his feelings for boys, and the idea of doing so didn’t even occur to him, except in a wordless millisecond flash that tightened in his chest with shame and fear. What would Chris think? Will he be afraid I might like him “that way,” too? No, it’s a non-starter: erase, rewind.
Timothy’s head and heart were swimming in so many different feelings, some of them contradictory, defying classification. Having no compass or map, no positive role models, he felt unable to pursue either direction with his two crushes. Transfixed by opposing forces, the ghastly chore of self-discovery evaporated. But only for a time.
After three decades of believing and accepting he was simply bisexual, Timothy finally uncovered the one closet door of true consequence to him. The sign on the door read, “Transgender.” By this time, Clara’s transition was relatively easy. Finally, so many things about the story of her life made absolute sense, and, up to then, Clara had no idea such happiness was even possible. Discovering her true self felt like the toasty warmth and brilliant light of 50 Christmases distilled into one – and the feeling lasted for years, until, finally, her happiness felt right and normal. It was never a matter of deserving, but it came down to merely accepting grace.
#
After meeting Clara, it takes Jordan about a week to make himself put a halt to this nonsense and push on with his life. I’m not even looking for a relationship. I really shouldn’t be setting myself up for disappointment. I have everything I need to be happy. I’m comfortable. And he did, and he was. So, onward with sitting at the computer in his home office, reviewing scripts, meeting with actor and screenwriter clients online. Onward with going to yoga class, the grocery store, coffee shop, hanging out with his bestie, Leanne… doing laundry… microwaving frozen meals… Don’t judge. There are some pretty good ones, actually – even tasty organic and carbon neutral ones. It’s hard to shop and cook just for yourself.
On a Thursday, Jordan drives a few miles to the coffee shop just to spend some time out of the house. There are closer places with decent coffee and nationally known names, but he especially favors Coffee Blossom, up in East Sacramento. It’s a locally owned business, with all the hipster/yuppie/hippie trappings: urban-rustic décor, exceptional coffee and pastries, plus truly decent food, not just “breakfast burritos.” The shop roasts their own beans, takes espresso seriously, and hangs local art on the walls, rotating in new artists every few months. Jordan is tucked in at a table with his laptop, editing a script for one of his clients.
“Jordan? Hi!” the voice has no source until Jordan looks up.
It’s Clara.
“Hi! Clara, right?” Really? I’m going to say ‘Clara, right?’ as if I don’t remember her name? As if it’s not already etched on my… Jordan feels a flutter under his breastbone but breathes it away. “Uh… How’s Jake?”
“Jake is good. Yeah. And you?” Clara’s face is coloring a little; Jordan notices but figures it’s from coming inside, out of the chilly air.
Jordan responds, “Good, thanks. Just bringing a little work out of the office. Great coffee here.”
“Good… yeah. Um, well, I have to get my coffee and get back. Don’t work too hard.”
“Nice seeing you,” Jordan says.
“Same here,” Clara says, as she moves to the counter to place her order. To the barista, “I’d like a small two-percent latte with an extra shot, please.”
“For here or to go?”
“To go.”
Jordan watches for a moment, then closes his eyes, inhales a silent mantra, and turns his attention back to the computer. The script he’s reading is from a new playwright – a stage play about a family from Colorado living in the Philippines.
“See you,” Clara says, on her way back toward the door, now carrying a lidded paper cup.
“See you,” says Jordan, looking up to catch an eyeful of some nicely filled jeans walking away from him. Above the jeans, he sees a muted blue sweater with orange flowers, gently hugging a lithe and softly strong torso, topped by that perfect head of curly grey and dark brown. This is when Jordan notices the patch sewn on to the seat of Clara’s jeans. It’s a rectangle, a flag with five horizontal pastel stripes: blue, pink, white, pink, blue. Then Clara was on the other side of the glass door with her latte, walking away toward a car in the parking lot. Jordan’s eyes open just a bit wider while he breathes in. He exhales through his nose, narrowing his throat for a warming ujjayi breath, lowering his eyes back to the computer. To the other coffee patrons, it might sound like a long, impatient sigh, but to Jordan it’s serenely calming. He senses the wooden bench he’s sitting on through his bottom and thighs, as if he can actually feel the molecular vibrations of the wood percolating up through his iliac bone, gluteus, abdomen, and finally out into his chest. He tries to relax his shoulders. The words on the screen are no longer in focus. A bright and warm wildflower garden sprouts outward from Jordan’s heart, enveloping him with calm, with connectedness, and longing, until a hot plump tear falls to the back of his hand. He frowns curiously at the hand and massages the wetness into his skin.
Tuesday at the Safeway. They spot each other in the produce section. Clara is picking out apples; Jordan is passing through, looking for the packaged salad kits. Clara says, “Hi.” They both smile together.
Jordan responds, “Hi.”
Friday at Ace Hardware. They find each other in the fasteners aisle. Clara for 1-1/4” brads, Jordan for drywall anchors.
“Oh, hi!”
“Hi!”
It’s the following week, a Saturday in October. Jordan hasn’t gone for his walk in the park for a few days, but it’s sunny and golden this morning, and he drags himself out of the house. It’s a single-story house, with tan wood siding and yellow cream framing, dark brown faux shake shingles on the front-gable roof. There’s a cozy sitting porch, and a small front lawn with a few old cottonwoods and tasteful shrubbery. He wonders if Clara and Jake might be at the park – but quickly shuts the lid on that thought. He walks the three blocks through the neighborhood, his heart dancing to the rhythm of the light and shadow playing between the trees, and his lungs bathing in the freshness and pale warmth of the autumn morning air.
Jordan takes the path along the tall poplars next to the soccer field: sun, shadow, sun, shadow. Up ahead there’s a bench to the side of the path, where Jordan sees Clara sitting by herself. Jordan almost stops short but continues toward the bench. Clara looks up, grins nervously. “Hey, Jordan.”
“Hey, Clara!” Jordan responds. “Where’s Jake? Is he ok?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s fine, he’s at home. He has a big, enclosed run in the back yard.” Her eyes focus on the distance briefly, then come back to rest on Jordan’s face. “Um… I wanted to ask you…” Clara closes her eyes. “I mean,” her eyes open again, “if I have the wrong idea, I apologize…”
Then the words tumble out. “Would you like to get coffee, or… lunch – with me?”
Jordan struggles to breathe. What is happening to me? Clara’s face is like a dream vision, with light pink mist around it. The face changes slightly, eyes widening, and the round cheekbones reddening.
“Yes,” Jordan says. Yes. A small shy grin climbs its way onto his face.
“Great!” says Clara, smiling, trying hard not to look too eager. “When would you like to? What’s a good day for you?”
Chest pounding, Jordan feels the words with his whole body. “What are you doing right now?” The sunlight intensifies, surrounding the trees, encircling Clara and Jordan, and the snapshot of this moment is framed and stored away for the end of all memories.
Leonardo Magazine 