Two Worlds

eñorita's was a long, low, flat wooden restaurant and lounge

painted turquoise except for its yellow doors and pink window trim. Striped pots of plastic fuchsia hung along the rail of a porch which stretched the length of the building. The place reminded Katie of the tavern next door to the trailer park she'd lived in during grammar school, a place that seemed so glamorous then because it was where the grownups went to have fun.

It was the weekend of the Honeysuckle Festival and she felt ridiculously excited. She'd gone on a wildflower walk to persuade the women at Spirit Ridge to come into town for the parade and the sidewalk sales. They complained that they weren't into watching an army of little kids dressed as wild red honeysuckle, orange honeysuckle, Japanese honeysuckle in kimonos, twinberries in matching red, trumpet honeysuckle tooting toy horns-even the blue honeysuckle berries no one could grow around here-escort the Honeysuckle Queen on her vine float. They spent too much time trying to get rid of the pesty stuff so they could grow a few vegetables.

"Two-step dancing! Music by our old-time music band!" Katie Delgado had tempted the Ridgers, sunglasses raised in her hand as she danced by herself to no music at all.

"Maiden blue-eyed Mary," R had said, pointing to tiny blue and white flowers. "And over there, scarlet fritillaries." Katie had zoomed in and shot them, with their yellow streaks, like Mother Nature had been about to paint them orange then decided she liked the flowers the way they were.

"Let's do it!" said one of the land veterans, twenty-nine-year-old Nitara, originally from Delhi, who'd moved to the Ridge for a junior year project at Antioch and returned after graduation. She was still living on grants and writing an extensive history of women's communes seven years later. "I've always wanted to barge in on a drinking hole full of straights. They probably think it's a regular babe band."

"Not any more they don't," Katie said. "I know the owners. I couldn't believe Eddy and Perlita hadn't caught on. They're extremely padrisimo about it."

"You outed the band?" asked Marge, shock on her face. "Are you out of your mind? That's their steady job."

R's hands were folded, a sardonic little smile on her face. "The owners will let that information get out. They probably think the novelty will attract more men. And they're right."

Aster, who had moved there from the university with Marge, mimed sticking a finger down her throat. "Like yuck."

R said, "Men are much closer to our animal past than women. They may also want power and money, but only because it will get them more sex."

"Don't be such a grinch," Katie had chastised R.

"They can't help it. They have that propagation instinct. They disguise it, protect it any way they can. Who popularized romance? It's the only aphrodisiac they found that works on women. Who created marriage? That's simply the institutionalization of free and guaranteed sex, a business proposal in which men buy a female and feed and shelter her by bartering for sex and child-rearing."

Nightfall said, "Can you imagine educated het women being suckered into going along with such a patriarchal agenda?"

"Dancing is a heterosexual courting ritual," R said.

"I never danced for a man," Marge told her.

"Double yuck. Me neither," agreed Aster.

"Let's go turn dancing into a homosexual courting ritual! Come on, R, support poor dance-crazed lesbians!"

"If it means that much to you, Katie, I'll consider it. I realize this lifestyle shift from urban to rural has been difficult."

"R," she cried. "I don't want you to do it for me. Don't you ever like to cut loose and party?"

Nightfall said, "R's idea of partying is the quarterly potlucks at the Grange."

"Those are cool," said Katie. "But truth? They don't get my blood pumping."

"And that's what you need to feel good, Kate?" asked R. "A rush of pumping blood?"

"What can I say? I'm your typical type A, Gen X adrenaline junkie." Confessions of weakness sometimes appealed to R when nothing else did. Katie thought of it as tapping into R's goddess side, the way opposite end of rational. It reminded her to do the same, to rely on her guts more often when reading people.

So every night that week Marge and Aster had coached their land mates in the rudiments of country dance. The Saturday of the Honeysuckle Festival they walked into a macarena number at Senorita's, the hub of nighttime entertainment for the festival. Onlookers shouted encouragement to the dancers. The band was in overdrive, trying to make music louder than the crowd.

Katie, walking backwards, swished her hips and led R by the hand. From the motor homes parked in the lot and along the sides of the road, she guessed the snowbirds were trickling up north from their winter RV parks. It wasn't the Bay Area club scene, but it was going to give her a hit of what she needed.

The group snaked its way to the stage. There were seven of them, and four joined the hooting and clapping. "Someone," she shouted to R, "ought to talk to the band about performing at a potluck. That would liven things up."

R, wincing as she tried to make herself heard, said, "They did play for us, but I go to potlucks to talk to women, not to shriek at them."

Hands at R's waist, she fluttered her legs against R's. R pulled back and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Dancing with you upright for once."

"I'm not comfortable doing that here," R said.

Katie dropped her arms and turned away. She wanted more than anything to be on R's wavelength and felt like such a d.u.h. dud each time she failed. It was like meditation. Goddess, how she longed to quiet her mind, but as R said, she chattered. She was ashamed how she filled up her head with noise even in her silences. Tonight her body wanted to get in on the act, but wasn't that natural with a band up on stage playing killer music like this?

She leaned toward Nightfall and asked, "Isn't that a Grateful Dead tune?"

Nightfall bobbed her head, her face transformed by a smile. "Pig music, but so good. It's like getting drunk-you know it's bad for you, you know you're going to suffer down the line, but it's worth every heave. Listen to that banjo! These women know their stuff."

They sang along with the chorus. "We can share the women, we can share the wine..." until they laughed too hard to sing.

Jeep was a better fiddler than she'd ever let on when they were together. And for sure the band, in their checked shirts, neckerchiefs, and red overalls, hadn't had a Dead song in its repertoire before she joined them. Jeep loved the Dead and had used them to chill out. She'd told Katie that they'd been her mom's favorite group so their songs were like lullabies to her. It was obvious that Jeep had quickly become the heart of the band, leaping around on stage with her fiddle like a crazed elf. How did she keep her cowboy hat-complete with lavender band of course-from falling off? Katie had heard that the other women were total amateurs, some new to their instruments, others to any instruments. She wondered how much their professionalism was Jeep's doing, because they were totally cool. Jeep had probably even gotten them this job.

"Share the women..." Jeep had played that song while they were together, would play it on her harmonica, croon it over dinner in a restaurant, take her in her arms and dance her around to it in a motel room before leading her to the bed.

Katie didn't dare look at R who must be having a fit at the lyrics. Too bad her path had led her away from Jeep. She'd had good, if puppy dog, energy, and, with her bad punk haircut, her long straight nose, and ever-smiling lips, they didn't come any cuter. Katie still wouldn't be able to keep her hands off the kid if she hadn't opted for R. She laughed. Did her own puppy dog energy and dogging footsteps bug R as much as Jeep's had her? Probably! Jeep had been a transitional indulgence, while R was a discipline. The thought crossed her mind that this made her a disciple, but she didn't want to go there.

Katie had watched a torrent of apprehension pass across the face of each band member as they noticed the dykes out there, but a couple of numbers in, they were fine with it, catching their eyes and grinning. When Jeep spotted Katie her fingers didn't falter and, for the first time since their breakup, she gave Katie a pained little smile. Katie hadn't realized how much she'd wanted that to happen. She'd always known Jeep was strong and would be okay, and since she wasn't right for the kid, leaving had been better for both of them in the long run. Still, she'd had to steel herself against guilt these last few months, and now she could look forward to letting that go. She could dance to Jeep's music.

At intermission, the lesbians in the band surged onto the floor, arms extended for hugs. Jeep stayed with the harmonica player, Cat. Harmonica lips and violin fingers, she thought, what a great combination.

Katie watched the other customers drift to tables and the bar, isolating the nest of lesbians, casting quick looks or staring at them. Had the scuttlebutt gotten out that over half the band was gay, or were they too obvious to miss?

On the stage, one of the women was singing "Muskrat Ramble." She shook her head. Imagine My Surprise was an eclectic band all right.

Katie wore her short black leather skirt with a tie-dyed, long-sleeved T-shirt she'd bought at Fina's Finery. The straights were in pressed jeans and fancy western-style shirts or T-shirts, the men's printed with trucks and rude slogans, the women's appliquéd with horses, birds, kittens, and flowers. Her land mates wore homemade outfits and ill-fitting thrift store finery that would not have been out of place on a soup kitchen line. Even R, so regal on the land, looked shabby in slacks worn thin at the knee and a peasant blouse too short at the wrists.

While R held court with the quieter dykes, Katie drifted away from the group. Sharing R came with the territory.

She hadn't been inside a honky-tonk bar since she'd left the trailer park. Except for the people, it was like a gay bar. The dim lights lent it glamour, but underneath were layers of cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and worn fixtures. It would make a good setting for interviewing a rustic local if she ever got her project off the ground.

She found herself thinking about how much time and energy she used at Spirit Ridge taking care of basic needs like getting wood in for heat and bathing. R had running water, but it was gravity fed and came out of the faucet in a thin, weak, often rusty trickle. Filling the tub was such an interminable task that they shared the water, and when it was her turn to go second-they alternated-the water was tepid. She never felt truly clean. R believed that bath time was yet another ritual, a cleansing ritual, that needed candles, Native American flute music, and intimate talk. She had a habit of touching herself in the tub, and reaching in to touch Katie under the water, which always led to a soapy taste in the mouth for hours.

A bearded man in a white cowboy hat and snakeskin boots approached Katie. He held out his hand and she automatically shook it. "Don't tell me a looker like you is with that crowd," he said.

He was obviously trying to tell her that he knew she was gay, but thought, like a typical non-gay, it would be impolite to come right out and say it. She'd gotten too much of that even before she'd come out because she was a mix of Mexican and Italian. People couldn't figure out what she was, but didn't dare ask. She was shocked at the softness of the man's hand. He looked like a logger, with jeans held up by suspenders, but from talking to the locals she knew not even an equipment operator would escape calluses so completely. He didn't smell like engine oil, or horse. He did smell oddly of patchouli.

"M.C. here." He looked around at the other lesbians. "You know a big gal named Chick? Gives off new age woo-woo vibes and runs the granola and sprouts store?" When Katie nodded, he said, "We go way back, Chick and me."

She somehow doubted that, but gave the fake cowboy the benefit of the doubt. TV professional or not, Katie remained cluelessly gullible at times. She suspected that it was an asset as long as she checked her facts later. People could sense that she believed their every word during an interview and were more forthcoming than they would be to a skeptic. For some reason that made them more honest too. She couldn't imagine Chick tight with this mangy-looking dude, but stranger things had happened.

M.C. was maybe five foot, eight inches, skinny, and in his late forties or early fifties. He had an unkempt graying Abe Lincoln beard that shot up under his cheekbones like shadows to give him a cadaverous look, and short, unevenly cut hair with long bangs that met straight dark eyebrows. When you added the bushy sideburns and full drooping moustache that merged with his beard, he looked really hairy. He was slightly stooped, his arms hanging forward like a Planet of the Apes extra.

"How come I haven't seen you around here before?" he asked.

Katie felt R's psychic pull trying to drag her away, but her curiosity was stronger even than R, and her chatterer was stuck at the on position. She answered him without hesitation. "I've never been here before. You're a regular?"

"I like to stop in now and then." He'd been studying her body, but now he spoke directly to her. "What are you drinking? Want a beer?"

Before she had a chance to answer, he handed her a fresh bottle

and lifted his own to salute her. "Why not?" Why wasn't she surprised that he'd come prepared? "It'll get you into the mood." "This is a good thing. I feel so out of it here in hicksburg."

"Man, if I didn't go down to the Bay Area now and then I'd be nuts."

They talked about the city. He told her he'd moved here for the easy life on the land. He was vague about how he earned a living, but full of stories about the locals. His quick watchful gaze seemed to take in everyone around him, and he had an anecdote about each of them, mostly unflattering. As uncomfortable as he made her, edging ever closer with the excuse of talking over the noise of the crowd, she felt that flame of excitement. She was gathering material again. New stories had a taste to them, round and nutty and satisfying like nothing else.

Was there a story here? She found herself talking aloud about the vague project forming in her head. Interviews with guys like him and with the local women. People who made their living here and people who chucked their jobs to migrate here. This place had a history which kept both the 1960s and the 1800s alive. Were the two times similar enough that all these people could co-exist in the twenty-first century? What drew them, kept them? It had to be an anti-government hotbed both with natives bucking against land use rules and with the commune-dwellers and retired hippies into living under the radar of rules and regulations. Why hadn't they clashed?

"Hey, little lady, you're going to stir things up if you put us on TV," said M.C. "This is live-and-let-live turf. Think of us as babes in the woods who are better off not knowing we should be fighting a civil war."

"I wish I had my Sony. That was great!" She searched her pockets for something to write on.

"What?" M.C. asked. His attention, which had wandered to the crowd while she was talking, veered back. "You want to quote me?"

Gotcha, she thought. She could see his vanity was now on full alert. "Quote you? I want to film you telling me what you said."

"That would be a trip." He eyed the crowd again.

Yeah, she thought, like you're too bored with the idea, macho man. Ka-ching. She knew her hook was in.

He turned back to her and whispered close to her ear, "So, do you live up on the mountain with all those sister-types?"

She tried to step away, but bumped up against the bar. She hadn't realized how far she'd moved from the women. "Yes, I do. How about you?"

He gestured upward. "I have a place in the hills. It's no place I'd take a lady, though."

Oh, here we go, she thought. I show some interest and this zurramato moves in. Goddess, men pissed her off. You couldn't have a conversation without a man thinking it was a green light to your bedroom. They were so obsessed with their ugly bodies. She was repulsed at the thought that she might have stayed in southern California and married some slick kid from high school, taking her sustenance from biological chance.

Fuck this shit, Katie thought, turning toward the band, which was assembling after the break. She caught Jeep's eye. "Play something fast," she mouthed. "Help!"

Jeep, squinting toward M.C. behind her, then back at Katie with a spare-me look on her face, played a few bars of "Do Not Forsake Me" on her harmonica, her cue for the band, then lifted her fiddle and led the band into line-dance mode. The woman who played the plastic Calistoga bottle moved up to the mike and got the dancers on their feet with some astonishing percussion.

Katie let M.C. swing her onto the dance floor, planning to melt into the crowd as soon as possible. If he wasn't lying, Chick could put her back in contact with him, and with a camera in her hands she'd be able to handle this clown.

As if he'd read her mind, M.C. asked, "Is my old friend Chick in on this with you?"

"Not yet," Katie answered him, her fixed public smile in place. She could see that some old guy was asking R to dance. R folded her arms, glaring. It was time to get back to her, but Nightfall was already dragging R away from the man.

The dykes attached themselves to the end of the line, R maneuvering next to Katie. With a sweet, carefully modulated voice that made Katie's jaw go tight, she whispered, "I didn't know you danced with them."

"Chill, R. I want him in my film. Scene-women greeting winter solstice with a dance on the Ridge and a huge bonfire. Scene- this cowboy raping the wildflower-covered spring earth with his earthmover."

"You're obsessed by that male career I thought you left behind."

"Hey, little lady," the cowboy said in the gravelly slow tones of a habitual dope smoker. God, was that what he did for a living? Arm across her shoulder, he was trying to steer her back into his sphere. "You can come on out and shoot me any time. I'm with you old-growth tree people."

"Cool," Katie said. "You're the first dude to sign on." She made a few more of the right noises, and when she looked back for R, she was gone. It took way too long to disentangle herself from M.C. and go after her.

She found Sheriff Sweet leaning in the back door of the van, her horse's bridle in her hand, talking low. The night was fragrant with wet earth, soaked with a steady drizzle that had started in the late afternoon. R sat inside, cross-legged, crying.

"Girlfriend!" She'd never seen R cry before.

"I'll leave you to it then," said the sheriff, pushing her lanky self off the van and leading her horse, who, except for a few brown patches, was a ghostly white in this light, into the dark. The woman could have as least stayed to explain what was going on, although Katie had a good idea what it was.

R's expression would have suited the prosecuting attorney in the trial of a serial child murderer. "You smell like that beer hall," she said. "I thought you left the cities to be closer to the Goddess. You came so open. You came with love."

Katie had also never seen R this furious. "Nothing's changed."

"You were flirting with him to get your story! I could see that. Men oppress us. They destroy the natural world and women as a matter of course. They're very simply the enemy. How could you?"

"Everything you say is true, R, but it's like thinking about death. It's unbearable. I have to be able to function in the world."

"I can't deal with your other side, Kate. Pushing us to go public about our struggle to protect the mother land. Pulling us down here to consort with men."

The door to Señorita's opened and country-western music jumped out, like a banned cowboy tossed onto the street. Katie became a little Latina girl outside the road house next to the trailer park. She was quivering. It always came back to living in two worlds, always. She lost her language again.

Then R, as if knowing there was no one left inside to scold, opened her arms. Katie lay in the van with her, surrounded by R's mountain, the sounds of music and the glow of neon gone faint as they had when that little girl had lived in the trailer parks.

After a while she smiled to herself. That roadhouse cowboy was outrageously perfect for her film.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN