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BLIND LEAP
turn the corner? Or had she decided before she’d even gotten out of
the car, before they’d even left the memorial, or sometime even before
then—maybe when Velvet felt sick and had to leave Yoshi alone with
the Marin County ME—that she could no longer trust Velvet…not her
judgment, not her friendship, nothing?
After all these years of Velvet’s loyal friendship, how could Yoshi
do that to her? Yoshi had probably only called her that night so she
wouldn’t have to pay for a cab. Besides that first phone call in which
Yoshi hadn’t even apologized, she hadn’t bothered checking in to make
sure Velvet was okay since. For all she knew, Velvet could have gotten
in an accident on the way home and be lying in a gutter somewhere.
If things were the other way around, Velvet was sure she’d be
calling Yoshi every few minutes begging for forgiveness. She’d picked
up the receiver a dozen times today, ready to break down and ask Yoshi
to forgive her, even though it should rightly be the other way around.
But had Yoshi tried calling her even once? No.
It was only because Yoshi and Tucker had abandoned her in her
time of need that Velvet had even replied to yesterday’s sympathetic
message from Davina. Screw the both of them. They deserved each
other. There were plenty of other girls out there, girls who thought she
was hot and smart and accepted on faith that when she said Jeff didn’t
kill himself, she would be proven right in the end. Someone who would
help her feel better now. Someone like Davina, who understood the
depth of her pain and who actually seemed to care that Velvet was still
terribly upset, grieving the loss of her friend.
She and Davina had eventually talked for hours last night, recalling
those little moments with Jeff that had taken on greater meaning now
that he was gone. They fantasized about what things would be like if
Jeff hadn’t died. The amazing queer films he’d produce, the children
he’d parent. They bemoaned the fact that Isabelle and Theresa’s child
would grow up without knowing Jeff, a fact made worse because those
two women seemed to prefer it that way.
Davina had agreed that Velvet should encourage Jeff’s parents to
fight for custody of their grandkid. She wanted to hear the stories about
the childhood Velvet had shared with Jeff, the kind of stories Tucker
had started wincing at because she’d already heard them once or twice
before.
Tucker had never appreciated her. Meanwhile, Davina was a huge
fan of Velvet’s writing. She was not only aware of Velvet’s impact
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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL
on lesbian history, she had experienced and could recall the good old
days when Velvet used to edit Woymn, the magazine she’d founded
with Rosemary Finney. She had actually read and could both reference
Velvet’s work and place it within the context of other lesbian writers.
None of which were things Tucker could do.
Unlike Tucker, Davina was closer to Velvet’s own age, and she’d
been a lesbian for over a decade. It had been kind of fun, at first, to
introduce Tucker to lesbian history and culture. But Velvet was growing
weary of being a tutor, as anyone would. It was just a relief to speak
with someone who understood Lesbian 101, to whom she didn’t have
to give a crash course in LGBT history every time she dropped a name
or phrase like “Joan Nestle,” “Queer Nation,” or “Stonewall Riots.”
Perhaps most important of all, Davina Singleton understood the
importance of film. She was a University of California film school
graduate and had cultivated an addiction to the medium that rivaled
Velvet’s own appreciation of cult B-movie favorites, highbrow
independents,
lowest-common-denominator
blockbusters,
Oscar
winners, and obtuse foreign flicks.
Velvet experienced her motion-picture obsession as a brand of
collector’s madness. Like fanatical PEZ dispenser owners the world
over, her passion spilled from one room to the next until it threatened to
engulf her entire home. Her living room housed three floor-to-ceiling
shelves packed tight with DVDs carefully arranged in alphabetical
order by title.
Davina had asked if she owned a particularly obscure Polish film,
Nothing. Velvet did. After they shared a good laugh, Davina mentioned
that she’d enjoy viewing the flick again. Perhaps sometime soon.
“Yes,” Velvet had said. “That would be nice.”
They’d moved on to other subjects. Davina mentioned she
was dropping by Blue Plate, Velvet’s favorite restaurant for comfort
food, and before she knew it, Velvet was accepting Davina’s offer to
bring by an uplifting pot of handmade chicken noodle soup and fresh
cornbread.
It’s just dinner, Velvet had told herself. Weren’t friends supposed
to bring meals to their grieving pals so they wouldn’t have to cook?
Tucker had called earlier and left a rather curt message saying
that if Velvet wanted to see her, all she had to do was call. It seemed
like a lot of work, calling. If Tucker really cared about her, wouldn’t
she have come by and talked to her in person? Especially since Velvet
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BLIND LEAP
hadn’t answered her messages? She could be lying dead on the floor
and her so-called friends would just let her lie there, rotting, with rats
nibbling at her toes. Or wild dogs. She imagined the scene from Bridget
Jones’s Diary with the heroine lying on the floor with dogs circling
her corpse, part of her envisioned scenario of dying alone. If British
Bridget could use that image as an excuse to hook up with a wanker,
certainly it was reason enough for Velvet to accept a friendly dinner
from another dyke.
After all, it used to be when someone close to you died, your
neighbors took turns bringing over pots of food, picking up your mail,
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