The Villa, The Famous
Feminist, and Me
by Candida Lawrence
Jack and I call it "the villa" in order to mock the obscene cost-over-run and our own foolishness in deciding to buy land and build a house for grandchildren who don't as yet exist, for unmarried children in their late twenties who are not fond of each other. The continuing debt to the bank ($5,000 per month) is like a terminal case of poison oak for Jack who has a credit believability, which I do not.
I live in a studio some two hundred feet up the hill from the villa. This studio is the most gorgeous in the county -- high ceilings, windows with wide views to the Pacific Ocean, my writing table with typewriter beneath a window which looks out on a deck with birdbath and friendly raccoons, rabbits, sparrows, and the constant flash of the hummingbird's iridescent green and crimson. I can sit on the toilet and gaze out over the valley.
When Jack's in town, less and less often now, he sleeps in the studio with me, and works down below in the villa. My job is to maintain the villa and the grounds around it, to keep it looking clean and shiny, and to show it to any interested realtor. In the three years it has been on the market there have been three visits from possibly interested buyers (they weren't) and ten Open Houses. It costs too much, they say, and I don't say, "...but not as much as we've put into it." Jack says the villa is his work of art but is felt as a skin of sores which each day he longs to shed.
In the studio, I write. Dream. Read. Stare at birds. At my redwood table I have completed my first novel and am working on a second. Jack thinks that with all the time spent in the studio with typewriter, and beauty all around, I should have written six novels and twenty short stories. He's a businessman, he gets things done. I have sent my novel to various publishers and they have sent it back; I am working now with an agent who demands that I cut many many pages, which I am doing though my work screams in pain each time I pull off a limb.
The Famous Feminist has published a big book containing many of the themes of my novel -- women and their multiple grievances against men. I have tried to make a story; she has dissected many stories from thousands of women and has made a study. She has read my novel in typescript and has proclaimed it "fine and sure to be published." With that encouragement, I meet her at a seminar in New York.
I am awed by her public power, her crisp sureness, and back inside my studio, I wonder if a friendship with her could help get my book published. I tell myself that this thought is craven, not like me at all. Jack says, "Get real."
Getting real, I invite her to spend the summer at the villa, out of New York's heat, and she accepts. Many letters pass between us. I draw pictures of the dwelling. I tell her that she will be alone most of the time but that perhaps no more than once a month, my friend Jack will be in town and he will want to work in his study and we may sleep in the master bedroom, if she is not there. Therefore, the study and master bedroom and bath will be off-limits, reserved for him. This should be no problem, for the villa is immense and Jack is small, addicted to work, and he has his own telephone in his study. In her letters to me, she does not comment on this information. Instead, she asks politely if I could please find her an editorial assistant, someone with typing skills and word processor capability.
I put out the word and in a few days I have six candidates. I interview them (by telephone), ding two who have sad, sad tales to tell and won't stop talking; I give the remaining four the Famous Feminist's telephone number in New York. Judith is the lucky winner.
Two days before the successful writer (at least three published books and countless articles) arrives, I am feeling anxious about whether I can gracefully hostess such a personage. My idea of heaven is no visitors, no telephone calls, no people around to see, hear, or, as a poet friend says, to smell. I have felt elation when my car refuses to start and have delayed calling triple A for two days. At 8 a.m. Judith is on the line more than a little upset by Famous Feminist's long distance worries and demands. She wants to visit the villa to calm her self.
By ten, she's down below in the driveway and I run down the winding path and am immediately embraced -- the usual greeting between women, and some men, in Santa Cruz. She is very pretty -- live brown eyes, curly brown hair, tanned perfect skin, and lush figure, flowing back and forth in a gauzy skirt and blouse. After she oohs and aahs at the real estate, she tells me, her eyes filling and Kleenex at her nose, that the Famous Feminist wants: 1. an airconditioner, 2. a VCR, 3. a TV. She claims that the noise of these items will provide the best writing situation. She also wants a computer, which she intends to learn to use.
I say, "The villa, this house, this spot, is probably the quietest place in six counties, and she wants noise brought in?" We stare at each other and then we laugh so hard we have to sit down on the bench, which surrounds the fountain. We hear the drip of water as it splashes onto blue tile, Judith blowing her nose, my dog barking up at the studio, the whir of a hummingbird visiting the blue hibiscus.
I give Judith the tour and she is the first visitor to look closely at paintings, Mexican yarn configurations, ginger jars, arches, tile, and four decorative fireplaces. I feel my neck muscles soften. I begin to believe that with a loving alliance of two versus one, and a healthy skein of humor, we can settle Famous Feminist comfortably but not allow her to swallow our lives this summer. Judith, herself Jewish, sighs and says that Famous Feminist is berserk in a New York Jewish way and is in for a culture shock, may even have to go through de-tox before she accepts the silence of her surroundings.
Next I learn from Judith that Famous Feminist does not drive but that her companion will rent a car at the San Jose airport, and then move on, and therefore Judith will be needed to drive her around. I say "Companion? She didn't mention a companion to me. Judith! You will be a chauffeur!" I know I'll chew poison oak before I'll chauffeur anyone around summer Santa Cruz.
Would I do this for my book? No. Yes?
"She also wants a schiat-zu masseuse, daily, at the villa," Judith moans, then laughs.
So we're up on our hind legs, waving our paws, baring our teeth, but we both know we'll do what we can for this woman who has successfully informed us about gaps in our understanding of who we are, what we can expect. The vote, divorce, wages, children, mental hospitals, lobotomies, power.
Jack arrives to help prepare and he says he'll not allow air-conditioning in the villa. It would damage the wood of the window frames. Splendid. We can make him the villain. He thinks Judith is beautiful.
The day before our guest is due to arrive, Jack and I work feverishly to spiffy the constantly decaying estate. We drag my late mother's bed frame from storage and place it under the double bed mattress in the room, which I assume, will be Famous Feminist's bedroom. It looks great. We water the flowers, mow the vast grass area that looks out towards the Pacific Ocean, and stow away refuse. We spend the night in the master bedroom, listen to coyote yelps as we drift off, and in the morning take a shower in the tiled bathroom with two shower nozzles. Jack flees.
At 12 noon, at San Jose airport, I find a tired author at the baggage center. She's wearing a long black jersey dress, many buttons down the front. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face unreadable, we do not embrace. Angie, who has been pacing, is introduced as "my companion" and she greets me warily. Dark glasses, black pants, her hands in her pockets. Black boots. Lots of luggage. Angie rents a car and we decide that my guest will ride over the mountain with me, Angie following behind.
It is hot and smoggy in San Jose but cooler as we drive at modest speed up Highway 17, over the mountain and down into Santa Cruz. Famous Feminist hangs onto the passenger door loop but cheerfully enters a conversation with me. She says, "You look much better here, quite native." I'm wearing white cotton pants and a cool cotton blouse, stressing the California way. She says, "Isn't this road dangerous?" I say, "I feel okay on this road even though it's dangerous because there are only two lanes and if I feel nervous I can cling to the slow lane." She says, "Doesn't sound like you." I let that pass. She asks questions about my background, Jack, my novel, I tell her of the Supreme Court decision on sodomy, which came down while she was flying to California. I relax, say to myself, this is easy. She tells me she can drive, but won't because she is recovering from a ghastly auto accident. She says she'll never drive again.
We go first to Deluxe Foods, the nearest market, to pick up any supplies they may need. They buy spaghetti, Italian tomato sauce, instant coffee, (though I tell them there is a Melitta coffee maker at their dwelling), five huge bags of potato chips, and the Famous Feminist selects two "trash" novels "for escape" and "getting to sleep." Our arrival at the villa is muted, no comments from them or me. I feel this house can speak for itself, is in fact always yammering "Look at me, admire me, I'm so, so gorgeous!"
I take them first to the bedroom with my mother's antique bed frame and find that Judith has brought orange glades in our absence, placed them on the polished built-in oak desk in a blue Mexican pitcher which does not hold water too well and water is pooled on the wood. The VCR is there but not hooked up. Judith has failed to bring a TV but I assure them they can use Jack's which we'll move to their bedroom. Their bedroom? They say, "We have trouble sleeping," and "That bed doesn't look big enough for both of us," and "We can put the mattress on the floor and put the frame some place."
I show them the second bedroom, the kitchen, the dining area, the deck, the living room, and also the off limits area, casually mentioning again its off-limitness. They ask why there are no screens on the windows or doors. This is a good question, but embarrassing, or perhaps amusing. The villa has twelve doors opening outward to nature, and about twice as many windows, and not once in all the months spent designing, painting, smoothing, affixing these openers did we think of screens or flies, moths, mosquitoes. I tell them this story for a laugh but Famous Feminist asks if we couldn't install screens now. I say, "No, you see, since the doors open outward" but she doesn't get it. I'm not sure I do. They don't laugh. I wish them well and run up to the studio where I collapse on the window seat.
A few hours later my son Tony arrives to do heavy lifting and hook up stuff needed to be hooked up as well as plugged in. When we enter the villa it is dusk and all the lights inside are on, all the ceiling fans revolving. They have moved the sole kitchen table to the bedroom to place at foot of mattress so they can view movies (two rented by Judith) while sitting on the mattress. Angie is warming up, flirting with Tony, and she helps him move Jack's TV to the bedroom. This involves my going with them into the master bedroom where I discover the master bath -- a humongous Jacuzzi, maroon in color -- filled with warm water, wet clothes lying on floor, over doors, water puddles on the floor. Feeling like a housemother with wayward children, I mutter something about Jack's space.
Famous Feminist says, "It's the only bath big enough for two." Not defensive, matter-of-fact. She adds, "You two like the two shower nozzles? So do we." I do not tell her that this feature, plus the two basins, and the size of the Jacuzzi is solely for re-sale lure, not for our entertainment. I'm tempted to lament that there is only one toilet in the room.
The next morning Judith arrives with masseuse and masseuse table for first meeting with Famous Feminist. The place looks good and Angie is smiling at me in red satin lounge top over black pants. Her companion is still wearing her long black jersey dress. She looks bloated, too white. I call my dentist to arrange for an emergency appointment for her later in the afternoon. He's an ardent Christian and I warn him of her eminence.
We leave for the dentist at 1 p.m. taking two cars because they may want to explore later. Angie follows us to the post office and the laundromat. The dentist, with mocking reverence, takes the patient immediately and Angie and I sit in the waiting room and talk. She's a geriatric nurse but her favored topic is Famous Feminist's son Adam, age nine, and what a "brat" he was when she moved in, and how he's changed under her guidance. Three years. She's of Italian background from a large family. "When one of us shits we all gather around to sniff." They all get along and love each other. She chops the air with a fist for emphasis, uses crude expressions, thrusts her face close to mine, lets out hoots of laughter. Not what I'm used to in Santa Cruz. I begin to recall her at the seminar, striding here and there, shouting out support for lesbian statements, managing Adam. I tell her that it's fun to talk to her and she says, "I'm a good listener." The dentist escorts his patient into the waiting room and says, "I told her I know she is an activist and that I'm a floss activist."
We go in search of a pharmacy to buy Dimetapp, which the dentist has recommended: he said she doesn't have whatever the New York dentists said she had but probably has a sinus infection. We spend fifteen minutes in the Santa Cruz Women's Health Center. The ladies are thrilled. Later, Famous Feminist says, "a pathetic, dirty, tiny women's health center." She asks me why I don't like hot tubs, what I have against them, making this more important than I've ever considered it. I tell her I don't like groups and togetherness or very hot water. So why is she so interested, and why does she keep talking about it?
I lead them to Bookshop Santa Cruz with its outdoor cafe. Here I begin to have fun. Angie is friendly to me, pats me, and washes off the coffee I spill into my lap. While eavesdropping on a pontificating fathead at the next table (Famous Feminist actually turns herself around and argues a point on anti-Semitism) my two guests talk about the marriage that produced Adam (the husband is called "the sperm donor") and then what happened. Angie says, "Oh Christ, you have such blah-blah ideas about Adam, such romantic shit!" Angie had told me that when she entered the household everyone yelled at everyone, but now no one yells and no one hits Adam. All her doing. She said she showed him who was boss (raised fist) and now they are free to love one another.
We linger there until 4:30 and numerous women pass our table, self-consciously ask to be introduced, and then depart. We drink wine and talk a bit about the Jacuzzi and we decide, giggling, to keep it a secret from Jack, and they can use it when he's not in town. Angie says she's a "goddamn nurse" and can clean water stains off of any "Jacuzzi's backside" and insists that I stop worrying about the look of the place because now that she's in residence, she'll "improve" it.
During the day Famous Feminist has said:
"Double bed is not big enough. I would like a larger double bed."
Sorry, don't have one.
"We thought we might move double bed into smaller bedroom and twin bed into larger bedroom."
That would not look so good because twin bed has an alcove to fit it.
"I don't like to sleep in a room where I work."
I understand.
"I can't work in the bedroom, either bedroom. Castaneda. Not my spot. Maybe we could move the dining room table into the living room and make that my workspace."
The dining room table is about the size of two elephants and too wide to go through the archway and what would you do with the eight dining room chairs -- but I don't really care, if you think it would help your work.
I'm not thinking clearly, or at all. I remember Thoreau and his careful list of minimum requirements for a trip into the Maine woods, and accompanying list of prices for same. I ponder this woman who writes good books and gets them published, who is so spoiled or daffy that she can't work in a lovely room with a ceiling fan, a view, a deck, privacy, a closable door. This women who brings her slave with her. Not slave, wife Angie, who does the cleaning, errands, driving, hauling. I think of the book she pressed on me -- NICE JEWISH GIRLS, A Lesbian Anthology -- which I am dutifully reading. So it has come to this: after the Diaspora, the murders, the long history of oppression, the Holocaust, the formation of the state of Israel, I now, in America, must become conscious of and fight against, as a feminist, the discrimination amongst our ranks. I'm to speak out for Jewish lesbian feminists. I find myself wishing they'd stay in the closet.
I can't stop thinking about Angie. She's not only wife, she's working woman. She cooks and has become Adam's second mother, his primary mother... "She's better at it than I am, and I must write." Why hasn't Famous Feminist come out, and why does she not speak up when opportunity arises, as the women in Santa Cruz do? What kind of political chicanery is this? I sense I'm not to ask. I wonder why so many lesbian couples I meet are not matched intellectually. I shift down with Angie, not way down, but some, and then up again with Famous Feminist. I suppose it's simple. Angie is a nurturer and her beloved needs all she can get,
The next day I call down below and tell Famous Feminist that workspace in living room is not a good idea because...well, because Jack might walk through to get to kitchen for a bite to eat. Then it gets weirder. She tells me she feels there's an alien presence who must be considered, like a God or the police. She states that she cannot work in either bedroom no matter what is done with the beds. She claims I offered her a good place to work but now all I do is restrict her. I argue our previous letters explaining Jack but she says I said he wouldn't be around. I tell her he'll be here from July 4 to July 8. She says she's not interested in dates, or Jack, or when he is due. I promise not to alert her in the future.
All of this is polite, soft-spoken, and she says, with real sorrow in her voice, "I cannot work! We'll talk about all this later." No way.
On July 4, preparing for Jack's arrival, I want to call the residents to ask if they'll be around through the 8th, but I call Judith instead. She asks, "Do you hurt?" Of course not, I say, I'm bewildered, I'm grownup, I don't worship. She suggests that Famous Feminist needs conflict in order to begin writing, a somewhat new idea for me, but I recognize the possibility. Judith is in chaos, she says. She has to work now to support her girls, but has not been paid for anything, has turned down other jobs for this one and now her employer may go back to New York or elsewhere, and etc. She adds that Famous Feminist is sure there are bears prowling around the villa at night.
We now begin leaving notes for each other under the windshield wipers of our respective cars parked outside the villa. These notes transmit needed information and are marvels of love and consideration. One note says; "Jack is very sweet." Jack, Famous Feminist and I have dinner together; Angie stays home because she doesn't feel well. She talks of her publishing troubles (what?), of her present work on women's cruelty to women (will I be cited?), and her possible need of me as chauffeur if Angie returns to New York. Throughout, on through dessert, she flirts with Jack and utterly charms him. "What a woman!" he says later, "A first-class mind."
On July 13, note on windshield: "I'll be in Santa Barbara until Friday." Judith calls. "I'm in shock. I'm praying, meditating, trying to recover. I had to quit because she yelled at me, said I wasn't being "professional;" she said I wasn't a feminist, a good one, and that it was my fault she wasn't working yet. She was so mad at me because I called Angie when I heard she wasn't feeling well. I have no money, and owe for her computer, and maybe she'll talk to the women in Santa Cruz and I won't be able to get another job." Judith is sobbing, and in a weakened voice adds, "She said I had to make her my top priority, my only priority, not my children (sob, sob) -- available day and night. She said you are a very good writer."
On Sunday, Famous Feminist, Angie and I meet at the beach to walk and talk. I boldly say: "I wish you wouldn't write this book." She begins a monologue, measured, articulate. Women are cowards, jet setters (Steinem), blocked (Paley and Olson), anti-Semitic (Jill Johnson), literary (writing for men and mainstream), housewives, husband lovers, unprofessional (Judith), linear, academic. They are self-centered, biting, betraying. She says that black nurses are cruel to white patients to get back at them. Angie says, "Bull!" I say I don't believe that. She tells me I'm naive.
We drive to town, and walk to Eric's Deli. We pass a window of bakery goods and when she sees the cakes she squeals "Sexual fantasy cakes!" Angie says to me, "She's too much. She's always like that; she'll say anything. She's not aware of anything around her, just exists in her own head." We decide to see a sobering movie about Hopis and Navajos. Famous Feminist has a yellow pad with her and during the trailers, she writes and writes. Angie says, "That's why I love her, always working. That and Adam." If I were a real writer I would carry a pad to a flick and write during the trailers. I stifle the awareness that I like trailers.
On Wednesday, July 16, Angie calls to tell me that Famous Feminist is "real sick." Cold, flu. It's always something, her teeth, a headache, her back, can't sleep, now the flu. Down at the villa, she says it's cold though the thermostat reads 72 degrees. (Angie is getting a fire going.) She has not brought a sweater because she didn't expect it to be cold; I didn't warn her of that. She knew there would be fog but not that fog was cold. I don't offer her a sweater because suddenly I want to be a louse, to give her something to put in her book.
That evening a friend calls to tell me that the woman who was hired to replace Judith has already been fired. She had dared to participate in a pre-scheduled wedding at a time when she was asked to be available. Meanwhile, two of the agents the Famous Feminist has recommended have sent my ms back unread. Is she sinking? Is that what this summer is about? I begin to wonder if her vaunted scholarship, her college professor status, is reliable; that is, did she start with an idea and then tinker with the evidence?
Saturday, July 19. Famous Feminist, in a red cotton muumuu, greets me when I go down to the villa to water. Her friends in Santa Cruz have found her a condo with a sauna, hot tub, a pool with fish, a swimming pool, plus a lake with swans. Angie is scrounging furniture. The condo is within walking distance of coffeehouses available for meeting important Santa Cruz feminists. She wants to borrow pots, pans, and linens. I say wonderful, good idea, makes good sense.
A week before they take possession of their watery condo, they have a party down below. Clever women chatter and Famous Feminist holds court, governs, leading in her evocative style, asking for a statement from each woman. Angie is merry and serves everyone. The new assistant is there and I look for her armor but find she is without. She's pleasant; she chuckles, and seems familiar with all the themes addressed. When my turn arrives, I ask Famous Feminist what her working procedure is. How does she record the words of women? Does she take notes, talk one on one? "Oh no, I don't bother. I've heard it all before, no one is new or original." My story, I ask, is it also not new? "Your story, my darling, will exist in my writing, but I'll add a bit of someone else's, for flavor, or to make it more memorable." She is reducing me to idiocy and I want to shout out "But you are a professor: You have footnotes!"
The next day I go below to help with the packing (to snoop?). I find inventory lists on the kitchen counter of all they plan to take with them: Jack's blue-reef dishes, the entire set, silverware, bowls, coffee pot, lamps, linens, the kitchen table, pillows, not just enough equipment for two, but plenty for any number of guests. Starting small, I tell her that Jack would not like his dishes to migrate, that he needs them. She says, "But we're moving to a house with nothing." I shrug. She says, "Various women offered but I told them we needed nothing." I mention our only soup pan with lid. She says, "But it's all planned and now this!" I feel a wallop of fury; I could easily throw a plant at her. How dreary it is to be put in the wrong! Like a child. "Your cat meowed all night and I couldn't get to sleep." She turns swiftly and walks away from me.
Early in the morning Angie calls to invite me to come down and check. She says they are taking nothing. I find her in second bedroom still cleaning, making things shine and settle. She's friendly. She asks for TV (no), a telephone (no), the big orange lamp (no), the toaster (no), the little red lamp (yes). Famous Feminist walks in and we discuss forwarding of mail and her new telephone number. I help Angie carry boxes to the car. I tell her that I think Famous Feminist is cross with me and she says the goddess is cross with everyone all the time except when she's on stage and then she loves everyone.
Suddenly, they are actually about to leave. Angie and I hug and I tell her she's a great person, and she says she'll be back to see me and I say I doubt that.
Famous Feminist is waving a yellow piece of paper from passenger side of car. It reads "Dearest -- I am not cross with you! Don't forget that you're going with us to the Hiroshima vigil on the 9th. I'll call. I'm not cross, it's only that it's a bit disorienting to have plans about plates, cups, bedding etc. change twice at the last minute but I really do understand." Angie extends her fist through the open window on the driver's side, then her head, shouts "Look out: There's a bear behind you!" and guns the car forward, then down the driveway, away, gone.
When I water at
the villa late that afternoon, I realize that Famous Feminist never mentioned a plant, a
flower, a bird, a piece of art or any aspect of the beauty surrounding her. The villa was
not even "a setting" for her. As I walk through the living room and on into the
kitchen, my hands twitch and recoil before touching the counter, the toaster, the table.
Judith says she's evil. I'm sure that's extreme but am glad everything is washed.
Candida Lawrence's work has appeared in assorted literary journals,
such as Passages North, Ohio Journal, Moving
Out, Missouri Review, Sonora Review,
Crescent Review, and American Short Fiction.
She has also written several books: Reeling & Writhing (1994),
and Change of Circumstance (1995), which were published by MacMurray
& Beck, Denver.
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