sheâd act like my girlfriend.
I couldnât figure it out. It got to be really frustrating.
âMaybe sheâs afraid of intimacy,â Mom suggested when I made the mistake of confiding in her. âJerri was like that.â
I was incredulous. âYouâre comparing JD to that dyke who socked you in the jaw? No way!â
Mom used her Glenda-the-Good-Witch voice. âWell, sweetheart, I found Jerri attractive.â
âWeâre not talking about you and Jerri,â I said sharply. âWeâre talking about me and JD.â
âI am merely suggesting that JD may have intimacy issues, as Jerri did.â Momâs eyes grew moist. She put down her wineglass. âWell, I had some unresolved self-esteem issues, too.â
âHow do you know when youâve actually found the right person?â I asked my mom.
She shrugged. âI thought your dad was the right person.â
I didnât want to bail, but I couldnât see any real future with JD. The bandâs problems grew steadily worse. Personalities didnât mesh. As a business, Black Garters was total chaos. Gigs were canceled. People had to be paid. JD didnât want to deal with any of the day-to-day shit. She kept shooting up. Everyone acted like smack was way cool. I didnât use it so I was the boring straight girl.
JD didnât want me to go. She didnât want to lose me, she said. But I just couldnât envision myself hanging around, like one of her other women, watching from the sidelines as she picked up new hearts to break and turned into a junkie.
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After I split from JD, Mom offered to let me move in with her. But I couldnât go back home. She was always sick with some mysterious ailment or another, and I didnât want to take care of her. So she lent me enough money for a monthâs rent on a closet-size apartment and I started to look for work. I had no job experience of any kind.
Daddy was just starting his new firm in Portland, so he couldnât support me. Whitman never offered. He was working freelance as a travel writer, so half the time he was in Europe or out on the road.
The dads did say I could live for free with them, but only if I went to school and worked part time. I said Iâd rather just work. What I didnât say was that my credit-card debt was rising like the fare in a taxi to hell.
âWhat kind of a job are you looking for?â Daddy asked.
âIâm thinking of being a topless dancer.â
Whitman let out a strangled cry and threw up his hands.
âThe tips are good,â I said. âAnd it can be artistic.â
âItâs not artistic!â Whitman shouted. âDonât give me that bullshit! Tits are not talent.â He turned angrily to my dad. âJohn, tell her she canât do it. Tell her there are some lines that cannot be crossed. Stripping, for Christâs sake!â
âIf itâs so awful, why did you take me to see Gypsy?â I asked defiantly. âShe was a stripper.â
âYes, but she was not my daughter,â Whitman shouted, red in the face.
âIâm not your daughter either!â I snapped.
âThatâs very true,â he shot back. âIf you were my daughter, youâd be at Smith or Wellesley with a full scholarship.â
âIâm sorry if I canât measure up to your expectations,â I cried.
âSo am I.â He tried to calm down by sucking in his deep yoga breaths. Buddha breaths, he called them.
âRight now,â I said, trying to sound reasonable instead of desperate, âI just need to earn money. I donât have anything to live on.â
I hoped theyâd feel sorry for me.
Whitman was completely unsympathetic. He turned to my dad and said, âI have no authority here. You have to tell her she canât do it.â
âIâm twenty-one,â I reminded them. âI can do whatever I
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