The Kiss
NONETTE AND I were sitting on the frigid sunporch, and this time she was also smoking.
“I’m only doing this disgusting thing so that I won’t be disgusted by the fact that you’re doing it,” she said.
I shrugged and dragged hard. She was belligerent in a low-key way that nobody took too seriously. And she had told that story about being raped by her cousin, the Eagle Scout, to every nurse, aide, doctor, and other patient available. It was just a conversation opener. Here, of course, it was not supposed to matter whether or not the story was true because the important thing was her need to tell it. I was now trained to think that. Nonette wore a man’s black suit, a gravedigger’s suit, a Charlie Chaplin bowler. All too big and comically masculine. She took my cigarette from my hands and crushed it out. Then she suddenly reached out and held my face in the cup of her palm. She leaned toward me and kissed me. There was nothing upsetting about it, at first, it was no different than the other times I’d kissed someone for the first time. There was the same tentative heat, the same curiosity. Only she was supposed to be crazy, I was supposed to be not crazy, and we were women. Or maybe Nonette was just troubled, I was less troubled, and she claimed she was a man. She pretended she was a man. Or she pretended that she was pretending.
She drew back into her chair, settled, crooked one leg up, and hugged her knee. She stared at me, assessing my reaction. I was suddenly and completely charged with an electrifying embarrassment. I burned and burned, losing control. I forced myself to rise, and even so I stumbled, awkward and big, to the door of the sunporch and the entrance to the ward. She was still watching, now smiling.
The truth is, the fact is, I didn’t know at the time women could kiss women in that way anywhere but in Paris. I didn’t think it could happen, or had never heard of it happening, in North Dakota. I was staggered with tender surprise.
Later on, I was sent to check on Nonette. She had gone to her bed, pulled the covers down, and slid underneath with all of her clothing on. I could see her heavy shoes sticking out the bottom. The sight of her boot soles filled me with pity and joy.
THERE WAS NOTHING in the many stories of reversal and romance among my aunts and uncles to guide me here. A kiss from another girl set me outside the narrative. None of the family stories could touch me. I was in Anas’s story now. A dangerous love that could destroy. At the same time, I was so scared of what the kiss might actually lead to that I couldn’t think of anything to do but eat. I stocked my little room with food and did not stop eating long enough to think. Boxes of crackers lined the wall. Fruit yogurt in the cold space between the window and the storm glass. Cans of soda. Fruit pies and peanuts, bags of apples. I talked on the phone in the hallway for hours, smoking, tracking down my housemates, friends, even Corwin, who was distant with me. I didn’t really care. I kept him on the phone as long as possible because, after hanging up, there was nowhere to go but back into my room, where the food waited. As long as I was eating I could concentrate on what I was writing or reading. My eye traveled over the pages, my hand from bag to mouth. For the hours until the hour I could fall asleep, this worked. I didn’t have to figure out what I was doing, what Nonette was doing, why I couldn’t think of her and why I couldn’t stop thinking of her.
AFTER ESCORTING A patient to the beauty parlor one late morning, I am returning alone through the steam tunnels underground when she is there. She is walking toward me with no escort.
“I have a pass.” Nonette grins, stopping when we’re face-to-face.
We’re standing close and there’s no one else in the tunnel, lit by low bulbs, whitewashed and warm, branching off into small closets and locked chambers full of brooms and mops and cleaning solvents. Her face is clear and bright, her hair a rumpled gold in the odd light; her eyes are calm and full with no makeup. She is beautiful as someone in a foreign movie, in a book, a catalogue of strange, expensive clothes. There is green in her eyes today, her eyes are sea glass. I can almost taste her mouth, it’s that close again, pink, fresh with toothpaste. She is wearing jeans, a white sweatshirt, sneakers, and gym socks. I am wearing my cheap white uniform of scratching false material with tucks and a front zipper. She puts her fingers on the tongue of the zipper at my throat. She laughs.
“Got a slip on?”
I take her hand around the wrist, my thumb at her pulse.
“Stop, stop,” she pretends, but her voice is soft. I follow her around a corner, then a sharp turn, through a door, and we are right in the middle of the pipes, some wrapped with powdery bandages of asbestos, some smooth, boiling copper conduits. My cap snags. I let it fall. We walk into the nest of pipes and duck low, underneath the biggest, walk down the cast stone steps to the other side, a kind of landing, completely closed in. Behind us there is a wall of rough brick and flagstone that smells of dirt, of fields in summer with the sun beating down just after a heavy rain. The heat brings out the smell.
“Let’s sit down,” she says. “I’d like to get you stoned but I don’t have anything.”
I’m still holding her wrist. There is barely room to stand. The pipes, running parallel, of different lengths, graze the tops of our heads.
We sit down together. I’m shaking but she’s very calm. Anyway, it isn’t the way I thought it would be. After the first few moments, there is nothing frightening at all about kissing her or touching her. It is familiar, entirely familiar, much more so than if I were touching a boy I’d never touched before. The only thing is I keep shaking, trembling, because our bodies are the same, and when I touch her I know what she is feeling just as she knows when touching me, so it seems both normal and unbearable. We don’t take our clothes off, do anything, just touch each other lightly on our arms, our throats, our hands, and kiss. Her whole face is burning, and soft, like flower petals.
She says, “That’s enough.” I should go back now and she will follow. Any longer, and they’ll miss us. As I walk back down the corridors of whitewashed stone, through the five doors, back onto the ward, I begin to imagine how things really are. I invent her story. My thoughts take off. Nonette came here in obvious need, and I was here for her. She was here for me. I came here not knowing that I would meet the one I’d always needed. A week, maybe three, and she will be all right. I’ll leave with her.
“Nonette said you asked for a patient visit.” Mrs. L. sits behind her desk, a stack of forms beneath her spread hands.
“Yes,” I say, though I didn’t ask. But I’m smiling, slowly blooming at the idea. Nonette’s idea.
“We like to encourage our aides to work with the patients during off-duty hours, and I don’t see anything wrong with it, as long as you know that she presented here with some real problems.”
“I know that. I’ve talked to her about them.”
“Good.”
Mrs. L. waits, watching me a little too carefully. I am not supposed to know a whole lot about each patient’s personal history, not more than the patient wants me to know.
“Look,” I say, “she told me about her cousin forcing himself on her. I know she came here out of control, and I still don’t know exactly what precipitated it. I don’t know what she’s dealing with at home, at school, or if she’s going back there. The thing is, I really like Nonette. I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for her.”